DR2: The Cross of Changes, book III
by Nick Midian
Summary: Broderick Egoyan has carefully chosen the right moment to strike, when friends are against friends and all trust seems about to vanish between Slayerettes and Archangels. It’s right when you think things couldn’t get worse that they get worse.
1. Part 1 of 10

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book III, part 1 of 10  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general   
corrections by Theo  
  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow   
kissing and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial,   
Land of 'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline   
to accommodate it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy'   
happened a lot later than it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are   
only tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of   
Highlander-style immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole   
'Immortals have no parents and are found in a little basket' is a... um,   
the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada', so let's just ignore it, OK?  
  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit,   
merely for the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander,   
Willow, Oz, Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle   
Gorch, Quentin Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property   
of Joss Whedon, Warner Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of   
Highlander and the characters mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda   
Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the Society of Watchers) are the   
property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the   
World Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are   
copyright of their respective rights owners.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language,   
so any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my   
wonderful beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please   
be kind with me. I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child,   
believe me.  
  
SUMMARY: Broderick Egoyan has carefully chosen the right moment to strike,   
when friends are against friends and all trust seems about to vanish   
between Slayerettes and Archangels. It's right when you think things   
couldn't get worse that they get worse.  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen,   
because it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book III  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as The Sergeant  
Benjamin Bratt as Santero  
Trevor Goddar as Backlash  
Dolph Lundgren as Havoc  
Rob Rowland as Chopper  
Jake Busey as Sniper  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Matthew Ferguson as Chip  
  
Bill Paxton as Major Stephen Marsden, USAF  
Tom Sizemore as Master Sergeant Ricky Perkins, USAF  
John Leguizamo as Airman First Class Charlie Martinelli, USAF  
Mario Lopez as Airman First Class Alonso 'Bear' Vasquez, USAF  
Patrick Labyorteaux as Sergeant Edwin Walters, USAF  
  
Richard Dean Anderson as Col. Jack O'Neill, USAF  
Michael Shanks as Dr. Daniel Jackson  
Amanda Tapping as Maj. Samantha Carter, USAF  
Christopher Judge as Teal'c  
Don S. Davis as Gen. George Hammond, USAF  
Teryl Rothery as Dr. Janet Fraiser  
Tom McBeath as Col. Harry Mayborne, USAF  
Peter Deluise as Airman Shepard, USAF  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
and  
  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
BOOK III: Game of Survival  
  
  
If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a   
hundred battles. If you know yourself but not the enemy, for every victory   
gained you will also suffer a defeat. If you know neither the enemy nor   
yourself, you will succumb in every battle...  
  
--"The Art of War", Sun Tzu  
  
~~~~~~  
  
CHAPTER EIGHT: First strike  
Sunnydale, California. December 4, 2002. 12:23 p.m.  
  
  
Tied to the tracks and the train's just coming  
Strapped to the wing with the engine running  
You say that this wasn't in your plans  
And don't mess around with the demolition man  
  
Tied to a chair, the bomb is ticking  
This situation was not of your picking  
You say that this wasn't in your plans  
And don't mess around with the demolition man  
  
I'm a walking nightmare, I'm an arsenal of doom  
I kill conversations as I walk into the room  
I'm a three line whip  
I'm the sort of thing they ban  
I'm a walking disaster  
I'm the demolition man  
  
"Demolition Man", Sting  
  
  
  
Cordelia was dreaming.   
  
That in itself wasn't anything really worth mentioning. Or, the truth be   
told, it wouldn't have been if she didn't know that it wasn't a regular   
dream or even a nightmare – but more like a memory, that she had forgotten   
long ago.  
  
And there was where the problem resided, because she was completely sure   
that, if indeed it was a memory, it belonged to a person that wasn't her.  
  
She had heard that dreams are always in black and white, but this one   
seemed to have been filmed in a sort of bright Technicolor. As if it had   
been hand-painted by an Italian painter from the Renaissance with living   
reds, blues and ochres, as if the sun was a big globe of yellow paint   
hanging in the sky over an endless blue ocean.  
  
She was dressed completely in white, a long, simple and gauzy dress   
without sleeves that seemed to shine with an inner glow under the bright   
sun. It stood out against her tanned skin and long, dark mane of hair,   
that fell freely over her smooth and bare shoulder and back.  
  
She had to grab her long skirt with her hands and hold it up, so it   
wouldn't touch the sand or be drenched by the water of the sea. Salt water   
came to her with every wave that crashed softly against the shore,   
caressing her naked feet with a chill that was cold and wonderful at the   
same time.  
  
The beach where she was seemed to be long enough to reach the very line of   
the horizon. As her bare feet walked over the thin hot sand, bringing her   
closer and closer to her loved one, Cordelia knew that if she followed the   
shore-line for a long enough time, she would walk off the edge of Earth.  
  
She'd reach that point where land, sea and heavens became one.  
  
Somewhere beyond the clouds and the rain, the harsh light of day and the   
cold darkness of the night, where there was no more worries and no more   
pains. Where time meant nothing, and she would just be able to spend the   
rest of the eternity in total and absolute peace.  
  
And the only thing that stood between herself and that tantalizing   
oblivion was the figure of her loved one, waiting for her not far away   
from where she was. His haunted brown eyes were lost in the vastness of   
the blue sea, as the gentle breeze caressed his dark hair and white   
clothes like a lover, make them flow softly.  
  
He was wearing a pair of simple cotton pants and a shirt with its long   
sleeves rolled up to his elbows, both pieces of cloth pure white as the   
driven snow. So much in fact, that it made the rest of him look even   
darker than what he already was.  
  
His hair was black as a raven's wing and fell in soft locks to the very   
end of his rear neckline, as if he hadn't cut it in a couple of months,   
letting it grow freely. His dark eyes, brown like warm chocolate, seemed   
as bottomless and old as the ocean itself.  
  
And, like it, they held all the secrets, all the promises and all the   
wonders of a future full of possibilities and hopes.  
  
He turned his head to look at her and, when he spotted her figure and she   
smiled brightly at him, he returned it with the same warmth and deep,   
almost overwhelming, love they shared.  
  
The young man climbed down off the small heap of rocks he had been   
standing on, and began to walk towards her, their eyes locked onto each   
other as they made themselves their mutual points of destination.  
  
The gentle caress of the wind, the alluring sound of the sea, the warm   
sensation of the wet sand beneath her feet filled the world. They were the   
only two habitants of that unreal world of their own, and it was their   
love what made it spin around, what kept the sun rising up every morning   
and the moon lighting the sky every night.  
  
They had each other, so they had everything.  
  
She felt her heart beating inside her chest to strongly that she feared it   
would burst, as they got closer and closer to each other until there was   
only an arm's length of distance between them.  
  
As if by common agreement, they stopped and looked at each other, not   
uttering a word. They didn't need them; they were unnecessary between   
these two, as their eyes were able to speak their shared feelings better   
than any words, written or spoken by man or god, would ever do.  
  
Love, devotion, feeling, emotion...   
  
He smiled that way that was his and his alone, and around them the day   
seemed a thousand times brighter with that simple gesture, as he reached   
out with his hand to cup her flawless cheek.  
  
He caressed her tanned skin with his thumb so softly, that it felt like a   
feather's touch to her, but that was enough to awaken a blaze inside her   
that was hot, primal and almost consuming.  
  
And she would love to be consumed in the fire, that was Xander Harris.  
  
Letting out a moan that was pure pleasure, she closed her eyes and reveled   
in the warm contact of his skin against hers as he delicately traced the   
contours of her beautiful face with his fingertips as if he was trying to   
memorize them forever.  
  
She wanted more, more of his touch, more of him, all of him. All his love,   
all his darkness, all he was able to give her. Instinctively, she knew it   
would never be enough; no matter how much she would get, no matter how   
much time she would spend trying to get it, Xander would never satiate   
her.  
  
Oh, but it would be so wonderful to spend the rest of her life trying...   
  
Cordelia opened her hazel eyes and looked straight at him, returning his   
smile with the same intensity, almost feeling his love for her coming in   
physical waves. Perfect, the time, the place, everything was perfect.  
  
Until she looked down, and saw the red rose on his chest.  
  
It was like a flower right over his heart, slowly growing as if it was   
blossoming under the action of the bright sun's rays. It was blood. His   
blood.  
  
Horrified, she lifted her eyes to look at his face as the red spot kept on   
growing and growing without stop, feeling the touch of his hand turning   
suddenly cold on her skin.  
  
She saw a single lonely tear rolling down his perfect cheek as the sadness   
in his eyes engulfed her into a cold embrace, that froze her heart and   
soul into a block of ice.  
  
He wasn't scared, not even frightened; his expression was sad, almost   
resigned, as if he had known all along that this was the fate God had   
reserved for him.  
  
His wonderful, sensual and beautiful lips moved without actually   
pronouncing the words. 'I will love you forever.'  
  
The blood, impossibly red and dark, drenched the front of his white shirt,   
covering and plastering it to his chest. And then, without warning, the   
garment began to be pulled away from his body, as if something pointy was   
pushing the shirt from the inside. A nauseating sound of ripping flesh and   
broken muscles filled the salty air.  
  
Xander closed his eyes and clenched his teeth in a tight grimace that was   
pure suffering, until the pain seemed to become unbearable and he finally   
began to scream; so loud and strong, that his voice could have made the   
stars themselves fall from the sky.  
  
Cordelia screamed along with him, unable to move as if she was as frozen   
as her heart was, unable to do anything more than to stare in horror.  
  
She stared as the bloody tent on his chest grew to the maximum extension   
of his shirt; and the blood began to flow freely from his mouth and nose,   
coming out like a fountain and raining down on the warm sand like red   
tears.  
  
His scream was turned into a gurgle as the blood overflowed his mouth and   
covered his face like a red mascara, and the edged point of a spear came   
out from his chest with a sound of crushed bones, ripping through his   
shirt.  
  
In a reflex movement, Xander grasped the handle of the spear as it   
appeared from his chest, struggling with it; but his eyes never left   
Cordelia's as he looked at her, letting the handle go to reach out for her   
with his left hand. As if even at that moment, she was the only thing that   
mattered to him in the whole world.  
  
Calling his name, she tried to reach him, to take his hand in hers, but it   
was as if he was being dragged away from her, farther and farther into the   
void and the bottomless oblivion of the horizon.  
  
For a second, she looked over his shoulder and saw her figure behind him –   
nothing more than a dark silhouette with two golden blazes where eyes   
should be, and a voice that was full of venom and hate.  
  
Like the mouth of a cobra. 'If he can't be mine, he won't be yours.'  
  
Their fingers touched for a second, a final caress as his hand slipped out   
of hers. A final push and Xander's blood matted her face as he began to be   
dragged away from her, out of her reach, away from her touch, out into the   
darkness and the cold of the night behind him. His lips were moving,   
saying the words once and once again.   
  
'I will love you forever. Forever. Forever... '  
  
And then, he was simply no more. And she was alone on that endless beach.   
And she was cold again. And empty again. And dead again.  
  
And the sand was cold beneath her feet, and the clouds covered the sun,   
turning the sky gray. The thunder roared, the lightning crashed, and the   
ocean rose and fell with a great rage.  
  
And she was alone.  
  
Forever.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Cordelia opened her eyes, feeling the unstoppable need to scream, but her   
empty lungs were only able to let out a moan that was half a whine, half   
the sound of her heart breaking in two.   
  
She remained quiet, unable to move, hanging on to the cushions of the   
couch she was lying on for dear life, feeling the whole world endlessly   
spinning around her.  
  
Her heart was racing inside her chest and her whole body was shaken by   
sensations that she wasn't able to understand, not to mention explain. It   
felt as if she had a river of molten lava running through her veins, and   
she had to make a serious effort to control her own body and gain back   
some resemblance of stability before even thinking of getting up from the   
couch.  
  
As she fought to gain control, the young brunette felt some movement   
beside her and the warmth of a large body coming near her. Cordelia turned   
her head and almost jumped on the spot with surprise, as she found Elvis'   
furry head at barely a couple of inches from her own, practically   
breathing on her nose.  
  
The large German shepherd whined softly and leaned closer to her,   
tentatively sniffing at her, as if to get himself an idea of what was   
going on with the young human female. "Elvis, what...?"  
  
The dog seemed unsettled and whined again, raising his front right paw to   
place it on the couch near her and, not able to hide a smile, Cordelia   
scratched him between the ears, getting a new whine, this time of delight,   
from the large animal.  
  
Elvis propped himself up on the couch and began to playfully lick her all   
over her face with his fat and spongy tongue, tickling her.  
  
"Oh God, Elvis, no!" she exclaimed, giggling. "You have doggie breath!"  
  
Elvis barked and got down from the couch, beginning to run in circles as   
if he was chasing his own tail and barking like mad. Wiping her face with   
the sleeve of her sweater, Cordelia couldn't help but to laugh at the   
dog's antics and, after trapping an errant lock of dark hair behind her   
ear, took his face between her slender hands, scratching his sides and   
almost making him purr.  
  
"Thank you very much, furface," she said, planting a big kiss on his   
forehead.   
  
If dogs could grin, Elvis was doing it right then, obviously delighted at   
having improved the young woman's mood. Jumping on the couch, he lay down   
with his head on the woman's lap, allowing her to pet him.  
  
Cordelia took a deep breath and tried to catch the last strands of her   
dream, or more accurately her nightmare; which, like rivulets of fog, were   
quickly vanishing from her brain as if it had never existed.  
  
As she scratched Elvis' head with her right hand and absent-mindedly   
turned her new silver ring around the ring-finger of her left one, she was   
only able to catch some disconnected feelings of fear and pain.  
  
Of loneliness and deep, overwhelming sorrow, as if her most precious   
possession had been ripped out from her chest.  
  
As if she had lost everything that made life worth living.  
  
Shaking her head, Cordelia suddenly remembered what had been happening   
when she lost consciousness and shooed the dog away, so she could get up   
from the couch and go back to the lab and the discussion between her   
friends. Xander needed her help and she was going to give it to him,   
whether he wanted it or not.  
  
After stopping for a few seconds to recuperate from a small attack of   
sea-sickness when she got up too quickly, Cordelia walked to the adjacent   
lab and waited at the door for a moment, looking at the interior without   
being detected.   
  
Xander was sitting by the main computer, which was being operated by Kyle   
and both Angel and Buffy were leaning close to the machine. The tension   
was palpable in the air, thick enough to be cut with a knife; and the   
young brunette stood by the door, passing unnoticed and listening   
carefully to their conversation, knowing they would speak more freely if   
they thought she wasn't present.  
  
She felt something wet touching the back of her knee and turned around to   
see Elvis, who sat down on his hind legs and looked at her in silence,   
slightly tilting his head to one side as if asking what was going on.  
  
She just brought her right index to his lips, and signaled him to keep   
silent and quiet. The dog just lay down on the floor, leaned his head   
between his front paws and observed the scene with his human friend.  
  
When the first pictures appeared on the computer's screen, Xander cleared   
his throat and began to speak, trying to sound calm and professional; but,   
although he achieved some success in giving his tone a good dose of   
coolness, he couldn't lie to himself. He was on the verge of a nervous   
breakdown.  
  
The first photo was a known one, Myriam Archer as the police had found   
her, on the roof of the Kobayashi Tower-1. She was lying in a pool of her   
own blood, her stare dead and empty, lost into the void.  
  
The second photo was also one of her, but it was so different that it was   
almost impossible to tell that both images belonged to the same person. It   
was a typical picture taken during a high school prom night.  
  
Myriam, no more than eighteen years old, dressed in a outrageous pink   
dress, smiling and hanging from the arm of a lanky young man with a severe   
acne problem dressed in an obviously rented tux, with an electric blue bow   
and cummerbund. The image of a typical American teenager.  
  
"Her name was Myriam Archer," Xander said with expressionless tone,   
"believe it or not she was born in Topeka, Kansas, last Sunday made it   
twenty-five years ago. Her parents were Steve and Marcia Archer."  
  
He continued, "He had a small dealership in automotive parts, and she   
worked as a volunteer in one of the municipal libraries. Both of them   
passed away a couple of years ago, in a car accident. No foul play   
involved, they just crashed into a drunk driver."  
  
"Your usual Mom and Pop from good ol' America, huh?" Angel snorted with a   
sarcasm that surprised Buffy.  
  
Xander shook his head slowly. "There was nothing usual about them, they   
were both adepts of the Brotherhood of Ezrain. Like the rest of the   
members of the sect, they lived normal lives on the outside – jobs,   
relationships, hobby-clubs, PTA reunions... nothing that would attract   
attention to them. They were postmen, teachers, policemen, doctors... you   
wouldn't be able to tell what they were, if one of them passed you by in   
the middle of the street."  
  
"I hate it when that happens," Kyle grunted, with a shake of his head.   
"There should be a law making people like that wear black robes or   
something all the time, it would be a lot easier to identify them."  
  
Ignoring him, Xander resumed his narration, looking at the blonde Slayer   
as if she was the only one apart from him present at the moment. "You   
already know what was the basis of the Brotherhood, to bring Ezrain back   
to this plane of existence and all that crap. There was a prophecy..."  
  
"There's always a prophecy," the tall Texan commented, in a low but   
singsong tone.  
  
"...saying that, exactly twenty-five years before the moment in which   
Ezrain would rise, a child would be born from two faithful adepts,   
carrying its mark on her skin, and that child would be the one whose form   
the Unholy would take. The Chosen One."  
  
Kyle snorted once more, shaking his head in amusement and turning towards   
Buffy. "Have you noticed how popular that term is? I mean, how many   
'Chosen Ones' must be out there? Hey Buffy, I bet that you could form a   
club or something like that, have an annual convention, Chosen-con or..."   
he finally noticed the stares directed at him, and shut his mouth, turning   
back to the computer.  
  
Tiredly massaging the bridge of his nose, Xander let out a long sigh.   
"Anyway, when Myriam was born, they found the mark on her body and from   
then on her whole life was... predestined, I guess you could say. She   
would raise Ezrain and give her body to her, blah, blah, blah, you know,   
the usual crap."  
  
Buffy shook her head sadly, looking at the photo on the screen. "It's   
incredible what some people are able to do. Her own parents poured all   
that bullshit into her brain since she was a baby – how wasn't she going   
to believe that was what she had to do?"  
  
She felt sad for her, knowing what it was to have the weight of a   
non-asked fate on her shoulders. Then she looked straight at Xander, not   
able to hide an accusatory spark in her eyes. "This is what I was talking   
about, she was also a victim. She needed help, not to be executed like an   
animal."  
  
Wounded by the sting of that words, Xander got up from the table, making a   
deep effort not to shout at her. Leaning his hands on his waist, taking a   
long breath to calm himself, the young vampire looked down at her with a   
serious expression on his handsome face.  
  
"There's where we differ, Buffy. Because when I saw her for the first   
time, she had the edge of a sacrificial dagger at the throat of a   
nine-year-old kid, ready to rip it open. She didn't look to me like a   
victim then, not at all."  
  
Buffy flinched under the intensity of Xander's voice and strong stare.   
But, as strongly as the young vampire seemed to believe in his reasons, so   
did she in hers. "OK, I'll grant you that she had to be stopped and that   
she deserved a punishment for what she had done and intended to do. But do   
you think that they deserved to be massacred like that? Don't you think   
that the death penalty was taking things a little too far?"  
  
In the shadows by the lab's entrance, Cordelia looked at Xander, holding   
her breath, waiting for him to answer.  
  
But the young vampire said nothing. He just closed his haunted dark eyes   
and, for a second so short that it passed unnoticed for all of them but   
the woman that loved him the most, grimaced in pain, as if his whole world   
was crashing down into pieces all over him.  
  
"Kyle," he said without turning around, with a voice that was like the   
ghost of his usual one, "please, load the data of what the Brotherhood did   
to kidnap those kids."  
  
The tall Texan gave him a worried look, noticing the quick downturn of his   
mood. But he limited himself to nodding and doing as ordered, letting the   
fingers of his left hand fly over the computer's keyboard as with the   
right one he skillfully used the mouse.   
  
"Do you want a quick review?" he asked. At Xander's soft and wordless nod,   
the images and the data on the different screens quickly changed to show   
new ones, among them a detailed map of the city of Los Angeles.  
  
Kyle sighed and zoomed in until a precise street was focused, using   
practically all of the screen. Then a blinking red spot appeared on the   
image, and this one began to change to turn into a detailed   
three-dimension display of the zone.  
  
"They needed innocent blood for the ritual, the prophecy was very clear   
about that," Xander said suddenly, his eyes fixed on the screen as if he   
was hypnotized by the blinking red spot, his voice low and haunted.  
  
He continued slowly, "But think about it, who's really innocent in this   
world today? The answer is probably only the children, and not even all of   
them."  
  
"You sound pretty cynical about that," Angel softly told him, speaking for   
the first time. Nevertheless, his tone was a worried one – Xander   
understood that even when he would always back Buffy up, he also cared   
about him, even in a moment like this. "Don't tell me that you've lost all   
hope for the humans, Xander."  
  
It didn't pass unnoticed to Buffy the way Angel said the word 'humans', as   
if he had wanted to state clearly that he wasn't one of them and neither   
was Harris. She wondered where that left her.  
  
Xander looked at his blood-brother sideways and shook his head, managing a   
tight smile for the older vampire's benefit. "If I thought that, I'd just   
take Cordy and spend the rest of my life on a Caribbean island or   
something. Do nothing more than sun-bathe and drink piña-coladas, instead   
of staying here and peeling my ass off in this damn war."  
  
He shook his head once more, this time pointedly looking at Buffy. "No, I   
want to believe that there's still some good people out there for whom the   
fight is worth the pain, and that's what I want to get to."  
  
He made a soft signal to Kyle and the images changed once more, to show   
pictures of a tattered yellow school-bus. Some of its windows were   
shattered, and some close-ups showed the telltale bullet holes in its   
frame.  
  
"The bus of the Woodrow Wilson elementary school at Burbank," Xander   
resumed his narration, "On Labor Day last week it was on its route after   
classes, to safely drop the school kids off in front of their homes. That   
was when they had to stop, because of a broken-down car in the middle of   
the street."  
  
"An ambush," Buffy guessed.  
  
The young vampire just nodded affirmatively. "The moment the bus stopped,   
five men dressed in those black robes Kyle was talking about and carrying   
automatic weapons emerged from the adjacent alleys, and surrounded it. Two   
of them forced the door open, and entered the bus. The driver, a man   
called Carlos Gutierrez, do we have any pictures of him?"  
  
At Kyle's soft nod and as he made a photo of the bus driver appear, a   
smiling, bald and slightly over-weight Hispanic man, Xander continued. "As   
I was saying, he stood up and tried to face them. The acolytes shot him   
sixteen times in the face and chest, and then threw his body out of the   
vehicle. He was married and had two children, aged 12 and 14."   
  
"God..." Buffy whispered, passing a hand over her face.  
  
"Apart from the driver," Xander continued, swallowing down a thick knot   
that had formed in his throat, "there were twenty-two children on that   
bus, all of them between 7 and 12 years old. And one other adult, a   
teacher who was in charge of taking care of them. Her name was Sarah   
Fisher."  
  
Buffy didn't miss the way in which Xander had said was and, when her photo   
appeared on the screen right by the driver's one, the blonde Slayer began   
to see things a little from Xander's point of view. She had been a very   
beautiful woman.  
  
"Did they also kill her?" Angel asked with a soft voice.  
  
Xander shook his head slowly. "Not immediately, she wasn't that lucky."  
  
Buffy looked at him in startled surprise, but the young vampire only gave   
her a cold, almost dead stare. "They tortured and raped her, before they   
did that," he said simply.  
  
"Do you really want to keep going with this?" Kyle asked the Slayer with   
worry, seeing that her face had turned suddenly pale.  
  
"I-I... I don't know..." Buffy whispered weakly, fighting to hold back the   
tears. "I'm beginning to see where you're coming from, Xander. And I   
understand what you probably felt that night, God knows how many times   
I've felt that way myself," she took a deep breath, sniffing and wiping   
the corners of her eyes.  
  
"But still, that's not the way. We're supposed to be better than those   
people – we're supposed to be the heroes, the good guys. If we fall into   
that sort of behavior and just act as our impulses tell us to act, if we   
cross the line that separates us and act like them... then tell me,   
Xander, what's the difference between us and them?"  
  
He shrugged slowly, with a sad look. "Maybe we're not better than them."   
  
"We are, Xander," she insisted with all her heart. "We have to be."  
  
Xander closed his eyes tightly shut, and for a second it seemed he was   
going to explode. "You don't get it, don't you?" he growled, almost   
painfully. "Sometimes we can't be, that's the problem. I would love to be   
a white knight in shining armor, traveling the world, rescuing damsels in   
distress and forgiving, even redeeming the bad guys."  
  
He continued, "But this is the real world, Buffy. And if there's one thing   
I've learnt in the last few years, it's that I can't save everybody. I   
have to make choices, and my choice that night was to help those children   
and avenge those people. They were the victims, Buffy, they were the ones   
who deserved our help. And as sure as Hell is burning beneath me, that's   
what they got from us."  
  
"Xander..." Buffy said, beginning to get a little frightened at Xander's   
growing outburst.  
  
Nevertheless, Xander didn't even hear her. "There is a line, Buff, but it   
doesn't separate the good guys from the bad guys – it separates those who   
are ready to sacrifice everything for what they believe in, from those who   
aren't! I believe in defending those who can't defend themselves and   
punishing those who deserve it, and I'm willing to do whatever is   
necessary in order to do so. Now, tell me Buffy, can you say the same?"  
  
"Damn it, Xander!" Buffy exclaimed. "Do you hear yourself? You're talking   
like a goddamned fanatic! What those people did was horrible, but what you   
did to them wasn't any better!"  
  
"Why, Buffy? You kill vampires every day, you stab them with stakes, you   
behead them, you set them on fire – what's the difference between what you   
do, and what I did?"  
  
"You know there's a difference..." she said with a sullen voice.  
  
Xander practically snorted at hearing this. "Really? What – that they   
haven't got souls? What's worse, Buffy, a vampire that kills because   
that's what its nature makes it do – or a human that does it, just because   
it's convenient to his interests? Who deserves to be sent to Hell more,   
Slayer?"  
  
At the poison in Xander's voice, Buffy remained speechless for a brief   
moment. Then, slowly, she shook her head.  
  
"I don't believe you," she whispered, her voice ragged from the tears, "I   
listen to you and I hear your words, Xander, but I don't believe them. And   
I think that not even you believe them. Do you? Or are they just what you   
tell yourself, so you can sleep at night?"  
  
"I sleep perfectly well at night," he lied, looking into her eyes, "thank   
you very much."   
  
Near them, both Angel and Kyle watched the exchange between the two old   
friends with dread and worry, each one because of their own reasons.  
  
Angel because he knew and cared for both of them, and it broke his undead   
heart to see them like this.  
  
Kyle because he knew the reasons behind Xander's actions, the   
responsibilities he had accepted and how much they had cost him.  
  
Buffy shook her head one last time with sadness, and turned around to walk   
away. "If that's all that you have to tell me..."  
  
"One last thing," the Slayer stopped dead in her tracks and turned around,   
facing him again. Xander looked at her, hard and resolute. "I don't like   
killing people, Buffy, you have to believe that. And I don't like what I   
sometimes have to do, but I do it. Given the same situation as last   
Sunday, I would make the same choices, no matter what nightmares they make   
me have."  
  
He paused. "You may not like it, Buffy, but it's a war out there. And in a   
war, either you kill or you die. We both know what death is, and frankly,   
I didn't like it at all."  
  
The blonde Slayer nodded slowly. "Do you know something? When you came   
back and got together with Cordy and all that, I was as happy as I've   
never been before, because I thought that you were alive and with us   
again."  
  
"And now?" Xander asked, leaning his hands on his waist.  
  
"I was wrong," Buffy said sadly, soft, shiny tears rolling down her smooth   
cheeks. "As much as I hate to tell you this, you have to realize it, or   
you won't be able to come out of that dark hole you're in. You're still   
dead inside, Xander, and now it seems that death is all that you know and   
all you can dish out."  
  
It felt as if she had staked him, right there. As Buffy turned around once   
more and began to walk out of the lab, not waiting to see if Angel   
followed her or not, Xander remained quiet and silent, looking at her back   
as she walked out of the room, carrying a little piece of him with her.  
  
When the Slayer exited the lab, she practically stumbled upon Cordelia –   
who was almost invisible between the shadows of the door, as if her dark   
hair and tanned skin turned her into a perfect inhabitant of the night.  
  
"How dare you..." she whispered with incredulity, looking at Buffy and   
shaking her head as if she couldn't believe what she had just said.  
  
The Slayer just looked at her, in silence.  
  
"I thought he was your friend," Cordy said.  
  
"I said it precisely because he's my friend," Buffy told her calmly, but   
with a sad expression. "He can't keep going on like this, or it'll destroy   
him in the end." =And you too,= she thought without actually voicing it.  
  
Cordelia had to make a real effort not to shout at her, but she managed to   
keep her voice low and controlled. "And you think that is gonna help him?   
Do you believe those people deserve your help or compassion, more than   
what Xander does?"  
  
The Slayer looked at her through half-closed eyes, as if she was examining   
her taller friend and seeing something in her for the first time. "You're   
too close to him to see what's happening to him, Cordy, and I think that   
you want so much to be with him that you're overlooking his faults."  
  
"Oh," Cordelia hissed with sarcasm, "and this is the pot calling the   
kettle black."  
  
Buffy just rolled her eyes. "OK, I guess this is not the best time to talk   
about this. I'll see you later."  
  
"Yeah, Buffy, later," she said to her back, practically spitting the   
words.  
  
Not able to look at the Slayer without feeling the need to chase her and   
kick her ass, Cordelia turned around and walked into the lab. She quickly   
sent a look of warning to Kyle and Angel and, after exchanging a   
meaningful look, the two men stood up in silence and went out, leaving her   
and Xander alone.  
  
The young vampire was looking at the floor, still immobile on the spot   
where Buffy had left him, as if he was a human-shaped statue completely   
dressed in black. But, by the shaking of his closed fists, she was able to   
feel the anger growing inside him like a tidal wave, coming out of his   
body almost physical waves.  
  
She walked close to him and tried to hug and offer him her comfort, but   
Xander quickly recoiled away from her reach, never raising his eyes to   
look straight at her. "No, don't touch me..."  
  
"But Xander..." she pledged at him as the young vampire began to pace back   
and front, trying to keep his rage in check. It was as if he wouldn't even   
acknowledge that she was present.  
  
"Buffy... Summers..." he growled incoherently, his voice rising and rising   
in anger. "Miss 'Oh-I'm-holier-than-thou'... who the hell does she think   
she is to say... Shit!!" he finally exploded, kicking one of the chairs   
and sending it flying like a projectile against the nearest counter.  
  
It crashed, and reduced the different vials and flasks there into a   
useless pile of broken glassware. "Damn her!!"  
  
"Xander!" Cordelia called him, scared by his outburst and covering her   
ears. "What do you think you're doing?"  
  
"Letting off some steam," he growled, resuming his nervous pace. "Trying   
to calm down, before I make an irreparable mistake like following her and   
pounding some sense into that stubborn head or hers..."  
  
"Are you really hearing yourself?" she asked in awe. "You're acting like a   
maniac."  
  
He just snorted, and gave her a sideways look. "Well, maybe I like being a   
maniac. Maybe I am a maniac." He sighed, passing a hand through his   
longish hair.  
  
"Shit. Shit. Shit!!" he kicked again the same fallen chair. And again. And   
again, until it was nothing more than a shapeless bundle of twisted   
metallic bars and plastic.  
  
Cordelia was scared. She wasn't being able to recognize the man she loved   
in that furious tornado that was in front of her, and she didn't know how   
to reach out for him.  
  
"Xander," she called him once more, hoping that the softness in her voice   
was enough to calm him, even if it was just a little. "Xander, I know that   
some of the things Buffy said sounded harsh, but you have to calm down."  
  
Xander stopped his attack on the helpless chair and leaned back against   
the counter, breathing heavily, like an enraged bull, and covering his   
contorted face with his hands. He felt possessed; he was furious, sad and   
scared at the same time.  
  
He wasn't sure who was more right, Buffy or himself; and, what was worse,   
he wasn't sure anymore if it really mattered at all.  
  
"Xander, look at me, please. Look at me, baby," Cordelia kept on saying,   
getting closer to him very slowly and speaking in a hushed and calming   
tone, like one would do with a dangerous animal. Xander finally let his   
hands slip away from his face, and looked at her.  
  
Blood-red tears blurred his warm brown eyes, and they seemed so haunted   
and lost that their mere sight broke her heart in two. Slow and silently,   
she walked to him and enveloped him into her arms, letting his head rest   
on her shoulder.  
  
"It's not fair," he whispered so low, that she wasn't sure that he had   
actually pronounced the words.  
  
"I know, but you have to understand her too – she's your friend, she just   
wants what's best for you." Cordelia surprised even herself with her   
words, because she was angry with Buffy too, but the truth was that she   
was plain tired from suffering and seeing her friends suffering too.  
  
She just didn't want to lose any of them again.  
  
Nevertheless, the young vampire didn't seem to understand this and he just   
took his face away from the crook of her neck, looking at her with wide   
open and wounded eyes. "You're agreeing with her?"  
  
Cordelia sighed, closing her hazel eyes and shaking her head. "No...   
yes... I mean..."  
  
She sighed once more, and took a deep breath as she searched for the right   
words. "Look, you know I'll support you always, and Buffy's sense of   
timing sucks; she chose the worst moment to talk about this, with Faith in   
town playing mind-games and all, but I have to admit that some of the   
things she said... well, they kinda made sense to me."  
  
Xander shook his head and got out from her arms, turning his back on her.   
"Do you think that I'm nothing more than a cold-blooded murderer, too?"  
  
"No, and I don't believe that Buffy thinks that of you either," she said   
with resolve but without following him, knowing it was the time to give   
him some space. "And, if those bastards did all I've heard you say they   
did, you won't hear any complaints about their deaths from me."  
  
She continued, "In my opinion, they just got what they deserved. But Buffy   
was right about one thing, Xander. I don't think that you believe in your   
own reasons – you say you do what you have to do, but you still blame   
yourself for it. That's why Buffy's words've had such a strong effect on   
you."  
  
Without turning around to look at her, he shook his head slowly. "You   
can't understand it, Cordelia. You weren't there, or in any of the places   
I've been these last few years. You can't understand it..."  
  
"Then why don't you explain it to me? I want to know."  
  
Xander turned around almost violently and looked at her, with eyes that   
had turned a furious and brilliant gold, grabbing her by her wrist so   
strongly that is was almost painful to her.  
  
Cordelia had to make an effort not to yelp, with surprise and fear. She   
was looking at his face and, even when the only sign of his transformation   
were his feverish golden eyes, she knew it was the vampire inside him who   
was talking to her now.  
  
The real him.  
  
"You want to know, Cordy?" he asked with rage, and a tone that was full of   
painful sarcasm. "You really want to know how it feels, to take a human   
life? To feel it leaving a person's body, and the corpse turning cold in   
your hands? To get hard when you rip a person's throat out with your fangs   
and drink his blood?"  
  
He continued, "Do you want to know how frighteningly attractive the   
sensation is, of having all that terrible power at your very fingertips?   
Tell me, Cordy, do you know want to know how it is to fight against that   
need, that hunger every damned day of your existence?"  
  
"Xander," she hissed, scared, "you're hurting me..."  
  
The young vampire blinked, as if his brain was in need of a couple of   
seconds to process her words. But, when they seemed to finally kick in,   
the gold and red of his eyes quickly changed into soulful brown and he   
freed his grasp on the brunette's wrist, as if the contact of her skin   
against his were suddenly burning him.  
  
"I'm sorry..." he said softly, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe   
what he had just done. "I didn't mean to..."  
  
"It's OK," she cut him while she rubbed her sore wrists, as unable as him   
to look straight at his eyes in that moment. He tried to reach out for   
her, but Cordelia stepped back from him and Xander remained quiet, looking   
at her as if he had just been stabbed in the heart.  
  
"Buffy was right about another thing," she whispered almost reverently,   
"you're getting yourself into a deep dark hole, Xander, and I can't help   
you out, not if you don't let me."  
  
Xander looked at her in silence and opened his mouth to tell her   
something, but closed it when he realized that he had no idea of what to   
say.  
  
Cordelia returned his awkward and uncomfortable look for a brief moment,   
hugging herself so she could alleviate a little the cold she was suddenly   
feeling, before walking away to retrieve her purse, which was on one of   
the counters, forgotten when she had fainted.  
  
"I'll leave you alone for a while so you can think," she told him without   
turning around to look at him, not until she was about to leave the lab   
area, then she just stopped and looked at him over her shoulder. "If you   
need me, you know you only have to call me. I love you, Xander."  
  
He just looked at her without saying anything at all, and Cordelia finally   
sighed and went away, effectively leaving him alone.  
  
"I love you too," he whispered a few seconds later, but she was already   
too far away to hear him.  
  
Very slowly, feeling that his legs weren't really strong enough to keep   
him up, Xander let himself fall into the nearest chair, the air coming out   
of his lungs almost painfully. Now that the anger was leaving him he felt   
suddenly tired, drained and empty.   
  
He was going to sink his face between his hands and have a good brood,   
when he noticed some movement in front of him and raised his eyes to find   
Elvis coming into the room and sitting down in front of him.  
  
Without uttering a bark, the large dog tilted his head slightly to one   
side, and looked at him with accusatory brown eyes.  
  
"I'm a jerk, huh?" Xander asked with a growl.  
  
Elvis woofed his agreement, gaining a weak smile from him, and finally got   
closer to him, sitting down between his legs so the young vampire could   
scratch his furry body. Doing so, Xander sighed again.  
  
"A total and absolute jerk," he repeated, shaking his head.  
  
This time, however, Elvis was only able to whine in delight.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
She smelled like lilacs.  
  
Michael raised his eyes from the food that was being served in front of   
him and looked in amazement at the young waitress, whose perfume was the   
source of that scent.  
  
His mind was suddenly filled with images of a 1975 hotel room in Saigon,   
one turned into a slaughterhouse, of a lost friend and the dead eyes of a   
beautiful woman.  
  
On the other side of the table, Joyce looked at him with a small frown on   
her face. "Michael? Are you alright?" she called him softly, reaching over   
the table to place her hand on the Frenchman's forearm.  
  
The Immortal shook his head as if he had come out of a trance, and managed   
to give her a self-conscious but charming smile.  
  
"Oh mon dieu, excusez-moi, Joyce. I just thought..." he blinked   
repeatedly, unable to explain what he had thought. "Never mind, what were   
we talking about?"  
  
Arching her brow but smiling, Joyce removed her hand from his forearm,   
retrieving her fork. In spite of the sudden sea-sickness before, she was   
feeling a ravishing hunger right now.  
  
"You'd told me about the general rules of the Game, but there's something   
I don't understand. What would happen if someone broke them someday? I   
mean, what if two Immortals fought inside a church?" she asked.  
  
Michael smiled and nodded softly. "Well, the truth is... I have no idea.   
The rumor mill says that the last time it happened, it was in Pompeii,   
five minutes before Mount Vesuvius erupted and buried the whole city in   
molten lava."  
  
He shrugged. "If you want my opinion, it's best that you just don't test   
the limits of the Rules – ever."  
  
Joyce laughed softly, shaking her head. Michael made it all look so easy   
and simple, that she almost forgot that they were talking about the fact   
that there was a lot of people out there whose only reason for living was   
chopping his and Buffy's head off. She wasn't very sure she wanted to   
really think about that.  
  
"I don't know how to help Buffy with this," she confessed to her   
daughter's new mentor. "As if her Slayer duties weren't hard enough, as if   
she didn't have enough pressure on her shoulders... I don't know what to   
do to make this easier for her."  
  
"Love her," Michael told her succinctly, "support her, let her know that   
she is not alone. I can teach her everything about fighting and staying   
alive – but the rest, the reasons to keep on fighting, to keep on living,   
I can't give that to her, she has to find them on her own. And she will   
need you and the rest of her family and friends for that."  
  
The Frenchman paused. "I've known Immortals that have tried to isolate   
themselves from the rest of humanity," he said, thinking about one lost   
young man he had found in a dirty alley of San Francisco. "As if erasing   
all contact with the rest of society would make everything easier for   
them, and the people around them."  
  
"And that's not the way."  
  
Michael shook his head, taking a sip from the glass of cold Heineken he   
had ordered. "Only if you want to die alone."  
  
They stood in silence for a few moments, as Joyce consumed her salad and   
the French Immortal picked at his half-heartedly.  
  
"There was something else I wanted to ask," the middle-aged woman finally   
said, a little uncomfortably, "although I don't know if it's any of my   
business..."  
  
Michael arched his brow questioningly. "Please, go ahead."  
  
"Alright, but please, tell me if it's too personal. You and your, uh,   
fiancée..."  
  
The French Immortal choked on his beer, coughing soundly as he quickly   
brought up his napkin to cover his mouth and clean the twin streams of   
golden foam that had surged from his nostrils.  
  
He needed a couple of seconds to get his breathing under control and be   
able to look at Joyce, feeling his ears turning red in a way they hadn't   
been since his adolescence.  
  
"Excuse me?" he asked in a high-pitched voice, much to the middle-aged   
woman's amusement.  
  
Not able to hide a smile at the much-older man's lack of comfort, Joyce   
shrugged helplessly. "Well, I thought that you and Miss Curran..."  
  
Michael nodded briskly, and with a nervous smile. "Oui-oui, yes, yes, she,   
she, um, Miss Curran and me... we are... we are... I mean..."  
  
"I told you to tell me if it was too personal," Joyce observed with a   
risen eyebrow and a small smile.  
  
Finally, Michael let his head sink down and shook it slowly, smiling   
widely. "We've still not talked about that kind of arrangement," he said   
with a sigh.  
  
"Not that I have anything against marriage, it's just that we've not been   
this close, I mean, involved for a long time. And, truth be told, neither   
of our respective experiences with it has been what you could call...   
fortunate."  
  
"That bad, huh?"  
  
Michael sighed, and shrugged politely. "She was married to a drunk and   
abusive man, and my father-in-law tried to kill me on the day of my   
wedding," he explained.  
  
He avoided telling her that, after he beheaded Takeo Mushashi in   
self-defense, his daughter, and Michael's bride-to-be, Aneko had committed   
a ritualistic suicide. He just didn't want to horrify her any more than   
what was necessary.  
  
Joyce just blinked for a few moments. "I see... well, uh, I just wanted to   
know how you feel about, well, about children."  
  
Michael felt suddenly that the tie was too tight around his neck, and that   
there wasn't enough oxygen in the air to feed his lungs. "Wh-what do you   
mean?" he asked the middle-aged woman, playing with his napkin so she   
wouldn't notice the shaking of his hands.  
  
Joyce shrugged, her stare returning to her dish. "I've never talked about   
this with Buffy. I know that with the kind of relationship she's involved   
in, I mean with Angel's..." she fought to find the right words.  
  
"Little problem with vampirism?" Michael offered politely.  
  
"Yes, I guess you could call it that," Joyce nodded with a smile. "Well,   
with that little... problem, she already knew that there weren't going to   
be any children coming out of that relationship. And she's never really   
talked about it, but I know that she still had some hopes of becoming a   
mother one day," she looked suddenly uncomfortable, "you know, there are   
other ways..."  
  
Michael managed a soft, but amused smile. "Yes, I've heard some rumors   
about that." She reddened, and the French Immortal patted her hand   
knowingly. "We can't have children, and that's probably the worst price we   
have to pay for the other... gifts we're born with. It's the most painful   
one, I know that."  
  
He sighed with resignation. "I guess it's different for a woman, but you   
were right before. There are other ways and, in my experience, if you do   
it truly and with the heart, the love you give and receive in exchange is   
what matters in the end. It is what remains, no matter the blood ties or   
the lack of them."  
  
"In your experience..." Joyce whispered. "Did you...?"  
  
"Adopt?" Michael asked, smiling warmly. He shook his head, his mind   
suddenly filled with images from his past, some of them wonderful, some of   
them sad and painful, but all of them special somehow. "It was a little   
more complicated than that in my case, but yes, I was a father once."  
  
She watched the emotions running through his handsome features, and   
discovered with surprise something she hadn't realized. She had known   
Michael Deveraux the Immortal and the fighter – but then she understood   
that, beneath all that, there was also Michael Deveraux, a caring man.  
  
But, somehow, she also noticed that there was something like a cloud in   
his dark blue eyes. "There is a worse part in this, isn't it?" she asked   
gently.  
  
Michael nodded slowly, tracing idle circles on his plate with the fork.   
"One shouldn't survive his own children. It's not right, for mortals or   
Immortals."  
  
He closed his eyes for a moment and grimaced, as if in pain. "When you   
lose a child a part of you dies with him, something that you can't ever   
recover. It's as if it vanishes into nothingness, leaving an empty spot   
inside you and, everything you see makes that... spot bigger, more   
painful. Every little detail makes you remember," he chuckled sadly,   
"every song, every flower, every..."  
  
When he shook his head and looked around as he tried to find the right   
words, he saw him again, just as he remembered him, "...face."  
  
He was standing on the other side of the street, looking at him with   
half-closed eyes, as if he was trying to determine if they were real or   
not. Michael thought that he heard Joyce calling his name, asking if   
something was wrong.  
  
But he wasn't able to be sure, because all his attention, all that he was,   
was centered on the figure dressed with a long cashmere coat at the other   
side of the street.  
  
They looked at each other in silence as time seemed to stop, and the world   
around them vanished into a blur of walking bodies, of faded colors and   
moving lights and shades. And all the world around them went as silent as   
a tomb.  
  
It had to be a hallucination, his brain interpreting wrongly what his eyes   
were seeing. Just a trick of the light and the shadows, changing a man's   
features into the ones he wanted to see.  
  
Michael closed his eyes and shook his head but, when he opened them again,   
he was still there, waiting for him.  
  
He had to be real.  
  
Michael got up from the chair, his astonished expression turning into one   
of wonder and his lips moving to pronounce his name.  
  
"Damon?" he asked, so softly that nobody around him was able to hear him.  
  
The man on the other side of the street smiled at him and nodded, as if he   
was answering his silent question and Michael had to make an effort to   
stay up on his suddenly weak legs. It was a miracle.  
  
And then, the man at the other side of the street, the one that looked   
exactly like his dead son, smiled once more at him, took a submachine-gun   
out of his coat and, aiming at him, opened fire without any kind of   
warning.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Angel had to run and walk down the rusty and trembling staircase that   
nobody seemed to use, to get to Buffy before she walked out of the   
warehouse.  
  
"Wait!" he called her, making the blonde Slayer stop with her hand on the   
knob of the small service door beside the main gate. "Where are you   
going?"  
  
"Home," she said succinctly, shifting uncomfortably under the vampire's   
dark gaze. "And I'd like to be alone, I need to think."  
  
Raising an eyebrow, Angel bit his tongue and nodded slowly. "That's OK,"   
he said tensely, "I wasn't going to follow you in the middle of the   
sunlight, anyway."  
  
The Slayer looked at him with half-closed eyes, crossing her arms over her   
chest in a defensively position. "Is there anything you want to tell me?"  
  
Angel sighed, hiding his large hands in the deep pockets of his coat, and   
shifted from one foot to the other, not really knowing how to start his   
speech. "Don't you think you were a little harsh on Xander up there?"  
  
She shook her head, as if she couldn't believe him. "I thought you would   
understand what I'm trying to do, better than anyone."  
  
The souled vampire went still, and half-closed his eyes. "What do you   
mean?"  
  
Buffy sighed and, closing her hazel eyes, massaged her temples tiredly.   
"Listen Angel, don't misunderstand me, but the truth is that you know   
better than anyone else how it is to live with a whole lifetime of...   
mistakes on your mind."  
  
Angel nodded, but said nothing. "I just don't want him to go through the   
same thing, not if I can't help it." she said.  
  
The vampire stood in silence for a whole second, before answering her.   
"Have you stopped to think that maybe he wasn't so wrong? That maybe he   
didn't make a mistake at all?"  
  
Buffy looked at him in astonishment. "Are you defending his actions?" she   
asked with incredulity. "I thought we were on the same side, Angel."  
  
"First of all, there isn't any side to this," he told her a little more   
harshly than what he intended at first. "I love you and Xander is my   
friend, and yours too. And frankly, if after what he told us those...   
people did, and I'm using the term 'people' very loosely, you still think   
that they should have been treated with more kindness than what they   
were..."  
  
He paused. "Well, I couldn't help wondering whether maybe you're the one   
who's in a hole, and can't see what's happening around you."  
  
The blonde Slayer looked at him, with a mix of hurt and surprise. Never in   
all the time she had known Angel had she seen that hard, merciless,   
expression on his handsome face. And never had she heard him speaking   
about killing human beings, without any trace of remorse in his voice.  
  
"Would you have also killed them?" she asked weakly, fearing the answer   
more than what she had thought possible.  
  
"No," he said immediately, "but only because that would have made me look   
bad in your eyes, and that's something that, basically, I couldn't   
possibly stand. But Xander knew that too – he knew that if you, or any one   
of us, learnt about what he was going to do it would seriously hurt your   
friendship."  
  
"And still, he did it," Buffy said, as if that gave her the reason.  
  
For Angel, it was completely the other way around. "Yes, he did what had   
to be done, and he did it fast and clean. Sometimes, Buffy, you just have   
to do what you have to do, no matter how much it hurts, and no matter how   
much it costs you. And that's something you should understand, better than   
anyone else."  
  
The hurt in her eyes was like receiving a punch right in his stomach, and   
he cupped her face between his hands before she could say anything at all.   
"And that's what makes the both of you so special, so strong. That's what   
makes you the best Slayer in history, and probably what made whoever put   
Xander in charge of his team choose him."  
  
At hearing this, Buffy frowned in confusion. "Whoever chose Xander? What   
do you mean?"  
  
Releasing her, Angel chuckled. "You have to be able to read between the   
lines, Buffy. How did they know about the whole Ezrain ordeal? That kind   
of thing doesn't appear on the Internet – and I don't think that they just   
found out about it by coincidence, or reading a book two hours or so   
before it all happened."  
  
He paused. "Remember, not even Giles had a clue about it. Someone had to   
have alerted them. Add to that all the equipment that they shouldn't have   
access to, all the weapons, the way they act, like a military unit... and   
what do you have?"  
  
"A bunch of Tom Clancy fans out of control?" the Slayer guessed.  
  
Angel chuckled. "No, there has to be somebody above them, some kind of   
contact or support that they still haven't talked to us about."  
  
"Like what? The government? The CIA?" she asked in a hushed tone, feeling   
too much like a character from the X-Files.  
  
Her vampire boyfriend shrugged. "I can't know that."  
  
Buffy sighed. She was thinking that now that Angel mentioned it, the truth   
was that it really made sense, although it gave everything a new and   
unexpected twist. "I have to talk with Giles about this," she whispered,   
more speaking to herself than to Angel.  
  
The souled vampire nodded his agreement. "Go ahead, he's coming now."  
  
"How do you know that?"  
  
He shrugged and gave her a small smile, tapping his ear. "Vampire hearing,   
I'm hearing his Citroen a couple of streets away. I wouldn't be able to do   
it normally, but the sound of Giles' car is... well, unmistakable."  
  
For the first time that day, the blonde Slayer managed a real smile and   
the vampire smiled along with her. "Well, I better go now. We'll be in The   
Library, so if you want to..." she began to say, feeling self-conscious   
and blushing a little under his intense and dark gaze.  
  
Trapping an errant golden lock behind her ear, she was caught by surprise   
when Angel leaned down to place a short but loving kiss on her lips. "Mmm,   
I, uh... will you join us later? We still have to figure all this out."  
  
The souled vampire nodded, that curve of his lips that wasn't deep enough   
to be a smile and that was so his, never leaving his expression. "Later,   
I'm going to stay here for a while. I want to talk with Spike about   
something," he explained to the Slayer's surprised face.  
  
"Well, see you later, then."  
  
With a soft nod, Angel stepped back, carefully avoiding the sunlight that   
entered through the door when she opened it. After exchanging a last   
silent look as their only goodbye, he observed as the Slayer left the   
warehouse and disappeared into the blinding glow of the daylight.  
  
Sighing, the souled vampire turned around, only to practically stumble   
upon Cordelia. "Hey," he greeted her with a small smile, "I didn't hear   
you."  
  
And it was true, not even with his sharp vampire hearing had he been able   
to notice her approaching. And he hadn't been that distracted. =Weird.=  
  
"Yeah, well, I guess you had your mind on more important things," she   
sighed, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze and crossing her arms over   
her chest in a defensive position.  
  
If he knew anything about Cordy and her body language, and he'd had the   
time to learn during the years they had been friends, she was really   
upset.  
  
But he also knew that she wasn't very prone to bite her own tongue, and   
liked to say what really was on her mind; so, when he didn't feel her   
anger immediately directed towards him, he figured out that he wasn't the   
main focus of it.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asked softly.  
  
The brunette looked at him from behind her long eyelashes, her hazel eyes   
practically blazing with anger. "What do you think?"  
  
The souled vampire licked his lips, and examined her through half-closed   
eyes. "And Xander?"  
  
"After your girlfriend's tongue-lashing?" she snorted with sarcasm. "Well,   
let's just say that he's not in his most cheeriest state. What was Buffy   
thinking? Does she think this is the best moment to antagonize him? Can't   
she see the hard time that Xander is having with Faith's comeback?"  
  
"She's worried about him," he whispered, avoiding the look of her eyes.  
  
"What? A vampire with a bad conscience isn't enough for her?" Angel just   
raised an eyebrow coolly, and Cordelia looked down in shame.  
  
"I'm sorry," she said, passing a hand over her beautiful but tired   
features, "that was like, totally uncalled for."  
  
"Don't worry," Angel eased her pain, patting the brunette on her shoulder.   
"Look, Cordelia, Buffy has good intentions, but she's a little... startled   
by all this. You have to admit that it's all quite unsettling, and   
surprising, coming from Xander."  
  
The brunette closed her eyes, and shook her head sadly. "When are all of   
you gonna understand it? He's not that Xander anymore. He's changed,   
Angel, and in more ways than getting a new attitude and set of dark   
clothes."  
  
"And you feel comfortable with that?"  
  
Cordelia shrugged, managing a weak and sad smile. "I have no option. I   
loved him as he was then, and I love him as he is right now."  
  
She walked past him, and opened the exit door. Before stepping out the   
warehouse, she sent a last look to the tall vampire over her shoulder.   
"Could you do something for me?"  
  
Angel nodded softly. "Sure."  
  
"Could you have a word with him? Right now it's like I'm not able to reach   
out to him, and maybe he'll be more receptive to listening to you. After   
all, you understand what he's going through better than any of us."  
  
"I'll see what can I do," he told her. With a soft, almost imperceptible   
nod of her head Cordelia walked out and, spotting Giles' Citroen, followed   
Buffy's trail.  
  
Hiding his hands in the depths of his coat's pockets, Angel let out a long   
and tired sigh, as he started to walk towards the elevator. Thinking about   
Cordelia's words, about the truth in them, and about how sad it was that   
he was the one that could understand Xander best.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Kyle had been walking to his bedroom, immersed in his own thoughts as he   
turned the recent events back and forth inside his mind, when the door of   
Crystal's room opened. A slender hand then emerged from the shadows of the   
interior, grabbing him by the shoulder.   
  
Caught off-balance, the tall Texan couldn't do much more than to allow   
whoever was on the other side of the door to drag him into the darkened   
bedroom and, stumbling over his own feet, he practically fell into the   
red-haired witch's arms.  
  
"Whoa!" he exclaimed with surprise and amusement, taking advantage of the   
situation to surround Cris' slender figure with his larger arms, as a   
wicked gleam came to his eyes. "I've often dreamt about you doing this,   
but I never thought you'd actually go ahead and do it sometime."  
  
The witch looked up at him with annoyance and was about to say something,   
when a soft and polite cough called their attention.  
  
Turning his head around, Kyle found Rachel sitting on the edge of Cris'   
bed, her long and jeans-clad legs crossed and an amused smile on her   
sensual lips. "Sorry, dude, but you're not alone here."  
  
"I don't mind," he said with a wide and playful grin, still without   
releasing the witch's body. "I've had this dream too. It's one of my   
favorites, now that I think about it."  
  
With a grimace of distaste, Crystal finally managed to struggle out of   
Kyle's embrace and glared at him with her deep jade-green eyes. "You   
really are such a child."  
  
The Texan arched his brow. "You say that as if it was something bad."  
  
At that very moment, the sound of a toilet being flushed came from the   
room's bathroom and Spike came out, still zipping up his pants. Kyle's   
humor immediately descended a notch. "Did I say dream? I meant nightmare."  
  
"I love you too, Cowboy," the peroxide-blonde vampire growled at him,   
letting himself fall onto the bed as if it was his, and propping his   
bleached head on one hand. "Well?"  
  
"Well, what?" Kyle asked, clueless.  
  
"Well, how did everything go between Xander and Buffy?" Rachel clarified,   
rolling her brown eyes. "Did the blood hit the walls?"  
  
Spike chuckled amusedly. "I love that expression."  
  
Ignoring him, Kyle just shrugged. "It depends on your point of view, I   
guess."   
  
Cris crossed her arms over her chest, and looked at him patiently. "And   
what's that supposed to mean?"  
  
"That after accusing the boss of being a cold-blooded murderer, at least   
she didn't actually kick him in the nuts," he said matter-of-factly.   
"Anyway, he tried to explain to her how things were last Sunday, but she   
didn't seem to get the point."  
  
"Did he tell her anything about..." Rachel shook her head, searching for   
the words, "...well, you know, about the organization."  
  
Kyle shook his head. "Nope, lips sealed tight as a tomb. Although I'm not   
sure that was a good idea. Maybe if she knew about it, she'd understand   
things a little better."  
  
"Or maybe she'd 'ave a bloody stroke," Spike growled. "Y'know, it's an   
idea damn 'ard to digest."  
  
"Yeah, tell me about it," Kyle agreed with a nod, "if someone had told me   
a few years ago that I would end up working for..."  
  
A pounding on the room's door made him stop, at that very moment. Arching   
his brow and sending a questioning look to the rest of his companions,   
Kyle opened it, revealing Angel's tall figure on the other side.  
  
"Hi," the souled vampire said with a tight, compromised smile. "I heard   
some noise in here and I thought that, well... that you would be... here."  
  
Spike had to make a real effort not to burst out in laughter. "Nice   
deduction, Sherlock!"  
  
Angel just sent a hostile look toward his childe, before centering his   
attention back on the tall Texan in front of him. "Anyway, I was wondering   
if you'd know where Xander is. I-I'd like to have a word with him."  
  
Kyle just looked at him, with a severe lack of amusement in his bright   
blue eyes. "Why? You think that he didn't get enough of that from your   
girlfriend?"  
  
Sighing, the souled vampire shook his head. "Believe it or not, I'm not   
with Buffy on this – well, not all of it, anyway. I just wanted to make   
sure that he was alright, but he wasn't where we left him with Cordy."  
  
"Then I don't know where he is," Kyle shrugged.  
  
"Still in the building," Rachel told him, "I can still feel him, but if   
you weren't able to find him when you were coming here, it's 'cause he   
didn't want you to find him. Just leave him alone for a while, Angel."  
  
The souled vampire nodded slowly, although his personal opinion was   
against the Immortal brunette's advice.  
  
From personal experience, he knew that loneliness was rarely a help for   
any kind of troubled spirit, and never served to improve the feelings of   
guilt.  
  
For him, it had only served to dig a deeper grave for himself than the one   
in which he had been buried when Darla killed him.  
  
"Can I talk with you then, Spike?" he asked his childe. "In private."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire blinked in surprise and looked at each of his   
teammates, who just returned to him the same blank stare he guessed he   
must be wearing on his face at that very moment. "Me? Why?"  
  
His sire rolled his dark eyes, before looking back at him with boredom.   
"Can I or not?"  
  
"Sure, come to my office." Getting up from the bed and sending a last look   
to the rest of his friends, Spike motioned for Angel to follow him and   
they walked to his private bedroom. The bleached-hair vampire held the   
door open for his sire to come in first, following and closing it behind   
him.  
  
Arching his brow and making an effort not to grimace, Angel took a look at   
the bedroom's... decoration, for want of a better term. "It's nice to see   
that some things never change," he whispered.  
  
As usual, it seemed that a tornado had passed through Spike's room. The   
bed was unmade, and the crimson satin sheets covering it were so tangled   
up that it looked as if he had just gotten up from it.  
  
The walls were covered with what could only be described as Spike's   
peculiar concept of personal decoration; although, for Angel's taste, a   
huge Union Jack and a 'Sid Vicious' poster hanging from the walls were a   
little too teen-like.  
  
Not to mention that almost every available surface was hidden from view,   
with the most diverse items. A greasy and presumably empty box of pizza   
here, a half-consumed bottle of Jack Daniel's there, a pile of unlabelled   
videotapes on top of the VCR and the TV...   
  
As Spike cleared a chair by the radical method of taking the clothes piled   
on it and throwing them on the bed and sitting down on them while lighting   
a cigarette, Angel dared to flip through a stack of magazines that he had   
left on a bureau.  
  
A 'Penthouse', a 'Celebrity Skin', another 'Penthouse', an old 'Green   
Lantern' issue, a 'Hot Video News', a new 'Penthouse', a... he blinked,   
surprised, and took a second look at the magazine in his hand, horrified.   
A 'New England Journal of Poetry'?!?  
  
=Weeeird,= he thought, carefully leaving the magazine where he had found   
it, hidden between all the pornography.  
  
"Well, mate," Spike got his attention as he exhaled a cloud of blue-gray   
smoke, "what do ya wanna talk about?"  
  
"Are you alright?" Angel asked with a small frown and, at his childe's   
confused face, he tapped his own lower lip, indicating the place where   
Kyle's ring had broken his skin. "What happened?"  
  
Absent-mindedly testing the cut with the point of his tongue, Spike shook   
his head as if it was unimportant. "Just a little misunderstandin' with   
the bloody Cowboy."  
  
Angel raised an eyebrow with incredulity. "And I thought that you were all   
one big happy family."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire just looked at him coldly. "Whatever you wanna   
say, spit it out now, mate."  
  
Leaning back against the wall, Angel observed his childe with half-closed   
eyes before actually speaking, considering his thoughts before turning   
them into words. "Tell me what happened last Sunday."  
  
Spike looked at him with surprise, then a slow and amused smile crossed   
his thin lips and he chuckled animatedly. "And why should I do that?   
'Cause o' your pretty face?"  
  
The older vampire sighed, shaking his head. "Listen, Spike, I know that   
there's a lot of bad blood between us, both literally and figuratively   
speaking... and I know that we're not going to be best buddies in the near   
future, and probably never will be."  
  
He continued, "But I also know that you care about Xander in your own way,   
the same that I do in mine. We have to help him, we can't allow him to end   
up like..." he looked at him in silence, before ending his phrase,   
"...like either of us."  
  
Boring into him with his cold blue eyes, the bleached-hair vampire took a   
deep drag from his cigarette and stood up to retrieve the bottle of   
bourbon from his bedside table.  
  
After unsuccessfully searching for a clean glass, Spike just brought it to   
his lips and took a long gulp from it, wiping his lips with the back of   
his hand afterwards.  
  
"He ain't like us," he said, without turning around to look at his sire,   
"even if he lost his soul, he'd never be like we are... or were, or   
whatever you wanna think. He's better 'n that."  
  
"I know that," Angel said simply and, breaking away from the wall, walked   
close to him, took the bottle of Jack Daniel's from his hands and   
swallowed a good portion of it himself, feeling the amber liquor warming   
his usually cold insides. "But Buffy was right about one thing, he's   
sinking down and he's not even noticing it."  
  
Spike just snorted, shaking his head. "You 'ave no idea, and neither does   
that Slayer girlfriend o' yours. You wanna know what 'appened last Sunday?   
OK, mate, just ask."  
  
"After the acolytes killed the driver of the school bus and kidnapped   
those kids, what else did they do?"  
  
Sitting down on the edge of the bed and leaning back against his twisted   
pillow, Spike took a new drag from his smoke and used those brief seconds   
to gather his thoughts.  
  
"They'd sent a second team to the building and, while the first one took   
the bus and the kids, they eliminated the security guards in the tower and   
silenced the bloody alarm. Then they drove the bus into the underground   
garage, took the kids to the top floor and began to prepare the ceremony.   
Did Xander tell you about the teacher?"  
  
Angel nodded softly, but didn't say anything. Spike just resumed his   
recollection of the events.  
  
"We – I mean Xander, Kyle, Rachel and meself – we were the ones who found   
'er. Or what was left of 'er, to be exact. She'd been a damn beautiful   
woman, but what them bastards left behind barely resembled a human body."  
  
Angel knew that his next words were going to be painful, but he also knew   
that he had to say them if he really wanted to understand what has gone   
through his childe's mind that night. "Was it any worse than anything that   
either of us have done in the past?"  
  
The bleached-hair vampire just looked at him darkly, from under his dark   
eyebrows. "I'm not gonna lie to ya and say that I'm the most righteous   
bloke in the world, Angelus, but it weren't the same."  
  
He continued, "And yeah, it was worse – them guys didn't do it 'cause it   
was gonna help 'em in their project, or because they thought it'd make 'em   
look better in Satan's eyes or somethin'. They raped and tortured the dumb   
bint just to kill time, 'fore it was their turn for the ceremony. Just to   
'ave a little fun."  
  
The older vampire nodded, and Spike smashed the butt of his cigarette on a   
hand-made ashtray that looked like the one a little kid would make for his   
Dad on Father's Day.  
  
"You still have the ashtray that Drusilla made for you on your birthday?"   
Angel inquired gently.  
  
Taking it from the surface of the bedside table, Spike slowly turned it   
around between his fingers, tracing its contours with his fingertips,   
caressing the smooth clay surface. "Do ya remember the day she gave it to   
me? She was so 'appy, so proud of what she'd done for me..."  
  
He couldn't help but smile when he turned it around and, after throwing   
the ashes into a more-than-full basket, read the engraving on the bottom,   
shaking his head. 'To my Spike, with love from his Dru.'  
  
"You made fun o' her for bein' so... human, ya made 'er cry," the British   
vampire practically whispered, although his tone didn't carry the sting of   
recrimination that Angel expected. "I think that was when I started to   
'ate ya."  
  
"I made a lot of mistakes with her," Angel said without looking straight   
at him, "and with you. I'm sorry."  
  
Spike left the ashtray in its place and shook his head, his chiseled   
features hard and resolute. "I don't want your excuses, Angel, I ain't   
never wanted or needed 'em. What you did, what I did, it's in the past and   
I've never liked lookin' back over my shoulder."  
  
Feeling more uncomfortable than what he had in years, the souled vampire   
couldn't do anything else than clear his throat and try to return to the   
previous matter of conversation. "What did you do then – after finding the   
body, I mean."  
  
"That ain't important," Spike said, patting his pockets in search for a   
new cigarette. "What's important is what Xander did."  
  
Angel frowned at hearing this. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Our main objective was to recover them stupid kids alive and intact   
before stopping the ceremony and, up until that moment, he was supposed to   
be the one who was gonna take care o' that. But, after seeing the... body,   
he changed the plans. He sent the Cowboy in 'is place, and went to finish   
those guys off 'imself."  
  
Then Spike finally found a half-emptied package between the tangled   
sheets, and smiled blissfully. "He did a pretty damn good job with 'em, by   
the way, if you wanna know my opinion."  
  
The dark-haired vampire crossed his arms over his chest and frowned, a   
little confused. "Why would he do something like that?" Angel asked more   
to himself than to his childe.  
  
"Are you jokin'?" Spike said, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke after   
lighting his smoke. "It's 'cause he felt that it was his bloody   
responsibility, because he blamed 'imself for it, because we weren't able   
to stop 'em sooner..."  
  
He paused. "Although we only knew what was gonna 'appen a couple of hours   
'fore it went down. And although there wasn't anythin' else that we coulda   
done than what we did, he still blames 'imself for not bein' able to save   
that woman."  
  
He snorted. "And now he blames 'imself for what he did in order to avenge   
'er. And if I know 'im, he'll be blamin' 'imself for makin' ya girlfriend   
angry with 'im. He's into a bloody spiral of stupid self-blamin'... 'n in   
my opinion, it's all your fault."  
  
Angel blinked in surprise. "Mine?" he asked in a high-pitched, surprised   
voice.  
  
"Bloody hell, yeah!" Spike said, almost laughing. "On account of for years   
you were his only example on 'ow good a vampire could possibly be, and now   
he's doin' his best to be just like ya. I've done what I've can to show   
him 'ow wrong that is, but I ain't 'ad much success. The lad is beyond   
redemption on that..." he finished with a sad sigh.   
  
"You're a jerk," Angel growled at him, a smile curving up the corner of   
his mouth nevertheless.  
  
"Yeah," his childe admitted, smiling back at him with contentment, "but   
I'm a lovable jerk."  
  
"And how did you know about the ceremony and the kidnapping of the   
children?" Angel asked suddenly and point-blank, almost catching Spike   
off-balance.  
  
The bleached-hair vampire just looked at him through half-closed cold   
eyes, measuring his next words. "We was warned about it."  
  
"By who?" the dark-haired vampire asked tentatively.  
  
"By a source," the blonde-haired one answered matter-of-factly.  
  
Angel grunted, shaking his head. "And that source was?"  
  
Spike raised his legs to the bed, laying them on it and crossing his hands   
under his head to use them as a make-shift pillow. "One that you dunno   
about."  
  
His sire sighed with resignation. "We're not getting anywhere this way,   
Spike. Who do you work for?"  
  
Letting a sharp smile cross his lips, Spike looked at him sideways and   
with malice. "What makes ya think we work for somebody?"  
  
"I'm not an idiot, no matter what you believe," he added before his childe   
could voice his opinion about that. "I can put two and two together; but   
frankly, you're the piece I can't fit into the puzzle. You never liked to   
follow other people's orders, if I remember correctly."  
  
"Maybe it was just that I 'adn't found the right boss," he answered   
pointedly.  
  
"Spike..."  
  
"Listen, Angelus," Spike said, sitting up on the bed, "even if I could   
answer ya question, and I can't, I wouldn't do it. That's not 'ow we do   
things around 'ere, there's a chain of command and I follow it. And that's   
it."  
  
"As I said, that doesn't sound like your style, not at all."  
  
"Hey, it works," Spike shrugged with disinterest, biting his tongue not to   
tell him what he could shove his opinion up. "Anyway, if you wanna know   
somethin' about that, you'll 'ave to ask Xander about it, it's not my   
story to tell. And some things are better kept under the carpet for   
everybody's sake, if ya know what I mean."  
  
Angel was beginning to get really angry at his childe's attitude and,   
walking closer to him, he leaned menacingly over his shorter figure and   
looked down at him with a hard and no-nonsense stare.  
  
"Have it your way, Spike. I'm inclined to believe you're doing the right   
thing – but I'm warning you, if Buffy or if any of my friends get hurt in   
any way because of your group's web of lies, I'm gonna be a very   
pissed-off Master vampire, and I'm going to want your skin first."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire raised a cool eyebrow, the shadow of an amused   
smile lurking on his thin lips. "Is that a threat, mate?"  
  
"No," his sire practically growled, breaking away from him and opening the   
door, "it's a promise, Spike. And you better remember it."  
  
The door was slammed closed with so much force that the whole room seemed   
to shake with the impact. Well, the whole room with the possible exception   
of Spike, who just arched his dark brow and took a drink from the bottle   
of bourbon, swallowing it with a grimace when the alcohol practically   
burned his throat.  
  
"You don't know what you're gettin' into, Daddy," he growled at the closed   
door. "You 'ave no goddamn idea at all."  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
To be continued... 


	2. Part 2 of 10

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book III, part 2 of 10  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general   
corrections by Theo  
  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow   
kissing and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial,   
Land of 'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline   
to accommodate it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy'   
happened a lot later than it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are   
only tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of   
Highlander-style immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole   
'Immortals have no parents and are found in a little basket' is a... um,   
the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada', so let's just ignore it, OK?  
  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit,   
merely for the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander,   
Willow, Oz, Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle   
Gorch, Quentin Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property   
of Joss Whedon, Warner Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of   
Highlander and the characters mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda   
Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the Society of Watchers) are the   
property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the   
World Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are   
copyright of their respective rights owners.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language,   
so any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my   
wonderful beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please   
be kind with me. I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child,   
believe me.  
  
SUMMARY: Broderick Egoyan has carefully chosen the right moment to strike,   
when friends are against friends and all trust seems about to vanish   
between Slayerettes and Archangels. It's right when you think things   
couldn't get worse that they get worse.  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen,   
because it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book III  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as The Sergeant  
Benjamin Bratt as Santero  
Trevor Goddar as Backlash  
Dolph Lundgren as Havoc  
Rob Rowland as Chopper  
Jake Busey as Sniper  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Matthew Ferguson as Chip  
  
Bill Paxton as Major Stephen Marsden, USAF  
Tom Sizemore as Master Sergeant Ricky Perkins, USAF  
John Leguizamo as Airman First Class Charlie Martinelli, USAF  
Mario Lopez as Airman First Class Alonso 'Bear' Vasquez, USAF  
Patrick Labyorteaux as Sergeant Edwin Walters, USAF  
  
Richard Dean Anderson as Col. Jack O'Neill, USAF  
Michael Shanks as Dr. Daniel Jackson  
Amanda Tapping as Maj. Samantha Carter, USAF  
Christopher Judge as Teal'c  
Don S. Davis as Gen. George Hammond, USAF  
Teryl Rothery as Dr. Janet Fraiser  
Tom McBeath as Col. Harry Mayborne, USAF  
Peter Deluise as Airman Shepard, USAF  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
and  
  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Any one of the submachine-guns of the HK MP-5 series has a cyclic firing   
rate of almost 800 rounds per minute. That means that they only need two   
and a half seconds, to empty the 30-round magazine with which they're   
usually equipped when fired in a completely automatic mode.  
  
This means putting thirty burning and lethal projectiles into the air,   
each one of them with a weight of around 150 grains, that fly at a speed   
of more than a thousand feet per second.  
  
Considering all this and doing the simple math, it was impossible that,   
between the moment in which the man that was a dead ringer for Damon Frost   
began to take out the gun from under his elegant cashmere coat and the one   
in which the submachine-gun's firing pin finally hit the empty chamber,   
any more than five seconds had passed.  
  
Still, in the French Immortal's mind, it seemed as long as an entire year.  
  
At first, when the silhouette of the weapon began to be recognizable as   
the sandy-haired man was taking it out, he felt confused, not exactly   
knowing how to react. That was Damon. That was his son. He was alive. And   
he was drawing a gun.  
  
Then, at the beginning of the second number two, his instincts kicked in   
and he began to move without really thinking about it.  
  
While the man across the street raised his weapon and aimed at him,   
Michael moved to his right; jumping over Joyce at the same time that he   
kicked the table, tumbling it down so it would be like a makeshift shield   
between them and the shooter.  
  
She felt the entire weight of the Frenchman falling on her and tackling   
her to the ground, chair included. And all of her salad flying into the   
air and falling around them as if in slow motion. Joyce let out a yelp of   
surprise and annoyance, still not knowing what was going on.  
  
Then, practically at the same time, Michael yelled a warning shout at the   
top of his lungs and Damon started to open fire.  
  
"Everybody get down!!" he screamed, his usually soft French accent   
strained to the point of being almost unrecognizable by the tension in his   
voice.  
  
They landed on the hard concrete, a moan of pain escaping from Joyce's   
lips; Michael covered her body with his, as the air was suddenly filled by   
a thunderstorm of gunshots when the submachine-gun started to vomit   
burning lead everywhere around them.  
  
As he advanced, crossing the street, Damon kept his finger glued to the   
trigger, not really bothering in taking aim but centering the shots on the   
small metallic circle that covered his targets' bodies.  
  
In less than a second, all hell had broken loose on that peaceful street   
of the Californian town. What until barely a moment ago had been an almost   
idyllic scene, was turned into something directly taken from a madman's   
wet dream.  
  
The first bullets impacted against the table and flew around it, ripping   
golden sparks when they collided against the metallic surface and   
shattering the large window glass behind them into a zillion shiny pieces   
that rained everywhere on and around the fallen couple.  
  
Someone, a woman judging by the high-pitched tone, screamed in fear and   
the panic washed over the present customers like a tsunami. Some of them   
were smart enough to throw themselves to the ground, seeking refuge.  
  
Some others were lucky enough to be far enough away from Michael and Joyce   
that they managed to run away from the scene as fast as their legs allowed   
them, throwing chairs and tables aside in their haste to escape alive and   
intact.  
  
A very few of them didn't seem to understand what was going on and   
remained seated in their chairs, looking around with confused expressions   
like paper-bunnies in a shooting-gallery.  
  
Coming from the 30-round clip, twelve bullets impacted against the   
protective shield formed by the table, bouncing on the thick surface like   
pellets. The rest passed over them and crashed into the wall, or passed   
through the broken remains of the window and into the restaurant.  
  
Where they finally collided against the counter, making the glass covers   
of the desserts explode into a cloud of tiny fragments, and generally   
turning everything into a real mess.  
  
Luckily, only one of the bullets found a human target, and that was almost   
by chance – it hit one of the waiters in the shoulder, sending him   
spinning in the air like a twister and making him scream like a girl.  
  
Everywhere around the crime scene, everything turned into a chaotic   
nightmare. The people started to run away as fast as they could, the   
parents in the nearby park quickly grabbing their children and dragging   
them away from the danger, the air filled with screams of fear even when   
the roar of the gunshots finally ceased for the time being.  
  
Nobody tried to stop the man with the gun. Nobody even tried to take a   
good look at his face. They were just too busy trying to stay alive.  
  
Michael, his mind clear now in spite of the havoc taking place around him,   
knew that the shooter's clip had to be empty after that long burst and   
lost no time in getting up from the floor, dragging Joyce up with him.  
  
"What's happening?" she asked with a trembling and bewildered voice.  
  
Recovering his breath, Michael dared to take a short look at Damon's   
dead-ringer and noticed something he had seen before. The grenade-launcher   
under the gun's barrel. And the shooter's finger was getting dangerously   
close to its trigger.  
  
"Shit!" he exclaimed, grabbing Joyce once more by the waist and   
practically lifting her from the ground with his deceptively slender but   
strong arms.  
  
He jumped sideways and, protecting the woman's frame with his own as the   
assassin pulled the trigger of the grenade-launcher, crashed through the   
remains of the window and into the interior of the restaurant.  
  
The 40mm grenade exited the launch tube with a deceptively low 'pop' and,   
after tracing a short arc, collided with the upturned table at the same   
moment that Michael's body impacted against the broken remains of glass.  
  
The explosion blew up the table and the adjacent furniture, sending chairs   
and tables flying, as a dark cloud of smoke and fire engulfed a zone of   
about three meters wide, throwing those who were still standing up to the   
ground with the force of the shock wave.  
  
That same shock wave hit the French Immortal and his companion right in   
the apogee of their flight, pushing them farther into the restaurant. And   
engulfing them into a burning embrace that choked the air out of their   
lungs, and made their dry eyes cry with the pungent sting of the smoke.  
  
Michael landed painfully on his back on one of the interior tables and,   
still hugging Joyce as if his life depended on it, promptly rolled over   
its surface until they fell to the floor with him on top, still covering   
and protecting her.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asked with worry, checking for any sign of damage in   
the middle-aged woman's figure, surprising himself when he didn't find   
any, either on her or himself.  
  
He took a short look around, and discovered that there was surprisingly   
little material damage for a place where a 40mm grenade had just exploded.   
=Where has all the shrapnel gone to?=  
  
Joyce coughed out the smoke in her lungs, and shook her head   
energetically. "No! I'm definitely not alright! Is this your idea of a   
nice lunch?"  
  
The French Immortal chuckled, despite the situation. "Well, the food was   
good, n'est-ce-pas?"  
  
Keeping his head down, he turned around to locate the shooter and saw the   
man that seemed to be Damon Frost's twin discarding the empty magazine and   
placing a fresh one in his weapon as he calmly crossed the street, walking   
to the restaurant.  
  
Michael could have sworn that he was whistling under his breath.  
  
"This isn't over yet, is it?" Joyce asked him with dread, looking at the   
sandy-haired hit man over his shoulder.  
  
"I don't think so," he growled, pushing the middle-aged woman towards the   
exit roughly.  
  
"Everybody get outta here!" Michael exclaimed, waving towards the   
customers and personnel that were still inside the restaurant, hidden   
under the tables or just lying on the floor with their hands covering   
their heads. "Now!!"  
  
Almost immediately, they followed the orders of his strong and   
authoritative voice and the door practically burst open, as a stream of   
panicked men and women exited the local establishment.  
  
Michael could only pray for the man not to begin mowing them down as they   
got out of the restaurant; but, fortunately for them, it seemed that the   
assassin was only interested in Michael and Joyce. He simply ignored the   
rest of the people, not even bothering to look at them as they ran away   
from the crime scene.  
  
"Help! I'm hurt!" the wounded waiter exclaimed from the floor, holding his   
bloodied shoulder with his hand, his white jacket and shirt quickly   
turning red under his clamped fingers.  
  
Muttering a curse, Michael backtracked and knelt down to help the man to   
stand up, grabbing him by his waist as the waiter leaned his arm over the   
French Immortal's shoulders. Joyce followed him without even thinking in   
the danger she was in just staying there, and helped the man from the   
other side.  
  
"What do you think you're doing?" Michael asked her with surprise at   
seeing her. "Go away, now!"  
  
"You need help with this man," Joyce told him matter-of-factly. "Keep   
pressing the wound, that'll stop the hemorrhaging," she informed the   
wounded waiter before shrugging at Michael's surprised expression. "I've   
been taking first-aid classes, I thought it would come in useful."  
  
Michael shook his head in wonder, before beginning to drag the man away as   
fast as he could. "Has this place got a back door?"  
  
"Yeah, in the kitchen," the man said with weak voice, his face pale   
because of the loss of blood.  
  
Michael took a short look over his own shoulder, trying to locate the   
shooter, and had to swallow a curse when he spotted him by the broken   
window, a predatory smile on his lips and the submachine-gun's butt firmly   
anchored against his shoulder.  
  
He looked freakishly like Damon. But it was impossible, of course, because   
Damon was dead, and because Damon wouldn't ever do something like this.   
Damon wasn't a killer, he hadn't raised him to be one. "It goes to an   
alley, we can-"  
  
The voice died on his lips, turned into a gasp of surprise and pain when   
the assassin pulled the trigger, sending only one bullet that hit the   
waiter right on his backbone. It crossed his whole torso and appeared   
within a mist of blood and bone fragments, through the middle of his   
chest.  
  
The man turned into dead weight in Michael's and Joyce's arms, and the   
French Immortal could do nothing more than to let him fall to the ground   
and grab the middle-aged woman by the shoulder. Quickly he dragged her   
behind the nearby counter as the assassin opened fire once more, shredding   
the coffee cups and all the objects on it into pieces.  
  
"Damn, damn, damn!!" he exclaimed, keeping his head low under the counter.  
  
"That man...!?" Joyce asked, struggling to get free from the French   
Immortal's grasp. "We can't just leave him out there like that!"  
  
"He's dead!" Michael exclaimed. "Forget about him!"  
  
"But-"  
  
"Sshh," Michael silenced her, covering her mouth with his hand. The shots   
had ceased the moment that they had disappeared behind the counter, and   
the silence that had fallen inside the restaurant was almost deafening,   
only broken by the thundering sound of their own heartbeats.  
  
Very slowly, the French Immortal's hand disappeared under his coat and he   
carefully unsheathed his gold and silver rapier, the shiny blade gleaming   
under the effect of the fluorescent lights of the local.  
  
Leaving the sword carefully by his side, he searched again inside his coat   
and whispered a colorful curse under his breath when he took out the   
shattered remains of his cell phone and discarded them away to recover his   
edged weapon.  
  
On the other side of the counter, Damon came into the interior of the   
restaurant, carefully crossing through the window-hole, and breaking the   
reigning silence when his expensive Italian shoes stepped onto a small   
bundle of grass fragments scattered over the floor.  
  
"Are you there, Michael?" he called to the Frenchman without getting any   
response from behind the counter. "Oh, come on, you know I could throw a   
grenade in there and just be done with this. The least you can do is humor   
me and have a decent conversation with me, don't you think?"  
  
His voice, his words, they were so similar, so akin to his memories of   
Damon, that it felt like being punched right in the gut by them, by his   
remembrance.  
  
But he also knew that the assassin was right. And, although the fact that   
the first grenade had been little more than smoke and fire without real   
harm was still running around in his mind, both Joyce's and his life were   
in this man's hands.  
  
He would still have an opportunity thanks to his Immortal capacities, but   
the middle-aged woman would have no help against the shooter's automatic   
weapon.   
  
He cogitated, =Think!= He had to think, and do it fast.  
  
Turning around, he began to search between the items stored under the   
counter, the first traces of a plan forming inside his brain. "I do not   
know who you are, mon ami," he said out loud as he rummaged through a   
bunch of cleaning utensils, "or how you've gotten my friend's face, but I   
swear you that I'll rip it off your skull once I have finished with you."  
  
Damon couldn't help but chuckle with heartfelt amusement at the gruesome   
threat. "Oh, come on, that's so gross, so unlike you..." he shook his   
head.  
  
"I would understand it coming from Spike or Xander, or even Kyle, but from   
you? Tsk, tsk, that has so little class..."  
  
Michael shared a short look with Joyce and when the blonde woman arched   
her brow in question, the French Immortal simply shrugged and took a   
plastic bottle that was identified by its label as an organic solvent for   
the drain.  
  
Michael smiled, almost evilly. "Try to find some kind of flammable   
liquid," he whispered to Joyce. As she nodded in silence, Michael took a   
long breath and got ready to gain some time, as the middle-aged woman   
searched under the counter.  
  
"Do I know you?" the French Immortal asked out loud.  
  
"Oh, please, Michael," the assassin chuckled, "did you care about me so   
little that you've already forgotten who I am? That shouldn't surprise me,   
but somehow it still hurts my feelings."  
  
He shook his head and sighed, looking almost sadly at the place where   
Michael was hidden. "It's me, Dad," he said softly, "I'm back."  
  
The French Immortal felt his anger and annoyance boiling up inside his   
belly, and quickly turning into furious rage. He'd had a son he had loved   
more than his own life, and whose tragic loss had wounded his heart and   
soul almost beyond repair – and he'd be damned if he was going to allow   
this bastard to dishonor his memory.  
  
"Stop saying that!!" he shouted, his voice rising up in anger. "You're not   
Damon Frost!"  
  
"I'm not? Do you mean you're not happy to see me again?" The young hit man   
arched his brow in surprise and disappointment, then he raised the MP-5   
and fired a short burst over the counter, turning everything that was over   
their heads into a rain of falling pieces of plastic, glass and china.  
  
Michael lowered his head automatically, and Joyce let out a nervous yelp   
of surprise. "Tell me, Michael, aren't you happy to see me, huh!?!" the   
assassin practically roared, his handsome face turned into a grimace of   
rage. "Haven't you missed me?"  
  
"Who is that man?" Joyce asked the French Immortal, too scared to keep her   
tone low.  
  
"I don't know who he is!" Michael exclaimed loud enough for the shooter to   
hear him. "But I know who he thinks he is – although he can't be, because   
he would never even reach the soles of the shoes of the man he looks   
like!!"  
  
"Do you think so, Dad?" he asked with sarcasm. "Are you like Saint Thomas,   
Michael? Are you so skeptical, that you need to stick your fingers into my   
bleeding wounds to believe? Can't you see who I am?"  
  
He let rip a new burst of bullets, riddling the surface of the counter   
with bullet-holes, tearing chunks of plastic from it. "Do you remember   
when I was a kid, Michael?" he asked out loud, almost smiling.  
  
"Do you remember that I was scared of thunderstorms? Do you remember that   
I always ran to you, and you always hugged me and sang to me till I fell   
asleep in your arms?"  
  
Joyce was about to ask something to the Immortal but, when she saw his   
face, she couldn't help but to stay silent. Michael's handsome features   
had suddenly turned a ghastly and sick white, as if all the blood had been   
drained from his veins.  
  
And the expression in his dark blue eyes... so lost, so hurt they were   
like twin zephyrs, beautiful but cold and void of any life. He exhaled a   
breath, and it sounded like the one of a dying man.  
  
"Do you remember the lullaby you used to sing to me, Michael?" Damon kept   
on saying as he slowly advanced through the restaurant as if he was just   
taking a walk, the gun nonchalantly leaning on his shoulder.  
  
"It was always the same, a French one, how did it go..." his voice trailed   
off as he made an effort to remember, and then started singing with a   
smile lurking at the corners of his lips.  
  
  
  
"Une chanson douce  
  
Une chanson douce  
  
Que me chantait ma maman  
  
En suçant mon pouce  
  
J'écoutais en m'endormant"  
  
  
  
A lonely tear escaped from Michael's eyes, slowly rolling down his cheek   
as he practically fell back, leaning against the stalls beneath the   
counter, captured and mesmerized by the soft lullaby, refusing to believe   
what was becoming painfully obvious.  
  
That man was Damon Frost. He was alive. He was a killer.  
  
God help him, his adopted son was a killer.  
  
  
  
"Cette chanson douce  
  
Je veux la chanter pour toi  
  
Car ta peau est douce  
  
Comme la mousse des bois..."  
  
  
  
Freely crying now, Michael had to cover his eyes and bite his lower lip   
not to scream with the pain that was engulfing his whole body. He kicked   
the stalls in front of him in rage, breaking the wood and the plastic with   
his foot and making a cascade of bottles and glasses fall at his feet.  
  
Hearing the noise, Damon half-sat on one of the tables and shook his head   
with a smile. "Are you alright, Michael? You seem a little unsettled from   
out here."  
  
Before Michael had the chance to answer him, the wailing sound of a siren   
came from the street and Damon frowned, taking a look outside through the   
closest window. "Well, I'll be damned..."  
  
On the street outside a black and white police car rounded the corner at   
top speed, sliding laterally on its fat tires and with its red-blue lights   
and siren blasting like in a mad carousel.  
  
"And I thought that the police were just a rumor in this town," Damon   
growled, sliding forward the grenade-launcher's tube on its guides and,   
after ejecting the empty shell, loading a new fragmentation grenade in it   
and quickly locking it closed.  
  
The young hit man shouldered the gun and pulled the launcher's trigger,   
firing the explosive projectile through the window, which exploded into a   
cloud of smoke and glass fragments with the impact.  
  
The grenade traced a tense arc of smoke, until it slipped beneath the   
upcoming car and exploded right under the Ford's rear axle, lifting its   
heavy frame off the ground within a ball of fire and black smoke.  
  
The car, still moving forward because of its momentum, seemed to fly for a   
short distance as the wailing sound of the siren turned into high-pitched   
squeak and then finally died when the squad car crashed nose-first against   
a group of parked cars, and fell to the concrete road... turned into a   
burning wreckage.  
  
Still, as the fuel tank surprisingly hadn't blown up with the grenade's   
explosion, Damon spotted the two cops trying to get out the crashed car by   
their respective windows.   
  
Their faces covered by bleeding cuts, choking and coughing with the smoke   
produced by the fire that was beginning to engulf the rear part of the   
police vehicle.  
  
"Hey, look at this, Michael!" the assassin exclaimed over his shoulder,   
almost laughing as he reloaded his weapon and shouldered it again. "Smoked   
pork! My favorite dish!"  
  
"No!!" Michael shouted, finally coming out of his trance. "Stop that!!"  
  
"Come here and stop me yourself!!" Damon fired again and, this time, the   
40mm grenade went right into the back seat through one of the rear windows   
and its explosion ripped the four doors from its hinges, lifting the whole   
structure of the car.  
  
The Crown Victoria spun in the air around its longitudinal axis and then   
crashed down like a ton of bricks on its upside-down roof, turned into a   
blackened piece of flaming coal.  
  
"Woo-hoo!!" the hit man yelled at the top of his lungs, his veins pumping   
with the adrenaline freely flowing through them. "Look at that!!   
Bull's-eye!!"  
  
With his nostrils flaring in rage, Michael loosened the knot of his tie   
and, after popping open the first button of his dark-blue shirt, slid the   
long piece of silk off his neck.  
  
"Have you found anything?" he asked Joyce, biting his lower lip to quell   
his rage.  
  
The middle-aged and shaken woman showed him a bottle of Tequila she had   
found under the counter with her trembling hands. "Will this do?"  
  
Taking the bottle from her hands, Michael made it spin around and nodded,   
his face turned into a hard mask of resolve. "It will have to serve," he   
whispered, uncapping it with his thumb and then taking a long gulp from   
it.  
  
"Here," he said, offering it back to Joyce, "have a drink, you'll need   
it."  
  
The blonde woman snorted in mild amusement and did as she was told,   
grimacing at the strong taste of the liquor and then returning it to the   
French Immortal. "What are you going to do?"  
  
Turning the bottle upside down, Michael spilled a good spurt of the   
Tequila on his discarded tie. When the bottle was half-empty and he was   
sure that the silk tie was completely drenched, he took the plastic can of   
solvent and refilled the glass bottle almost to its top, capping it with   
the wet tie afterwards.  
  
Then he started patting his pockets, and swallowed a curse.  
  
"Do you have a light?" he asked Joyce with a tight smile. "I quit smoking   
fifty years ago."  
  
"In my purse," she told him with a similar expression, "out there."  
  
Michael rolled his eyes and, placing the home-made Molotov cocktail aside,   
turned around and dared to reach out with his hand to pat the surface of   
the counter.  
  
Damon saw his hand emerging, and arched his brow in wonder. Then, smiling,   
took slow and careful aim and fired one single bullet that hit the counter   
at barely one inch from Michael's fingers.  
  
"Ouch!" the French Immortal exclaimed, shaking his hand in pain and then   
ripping out a wooden splinter from his hand with his teeth and spitting it   
away.  
  
"What are you doing, Michael?" the hit man asked with curiosity when he   
saw the Immortal's hand re-emerging over the counter and restarting its   
exploration.  
  
"Can you answer me a question?" Michael yelled, trying to gain some time.  
  
The sandy-haired man shrugged, following the apparently erratic wander of   
Michael's hand with his weapon's sights. "Sure! Just ask!"  
  
"What happened, Damon?" He couldn't believe it, but voicing his name,   
calling him that, was the most painful thing he had even done, and he had   
to clench his teeth tightly to swallow back the bitter taste of bile that   
came to his mouth.  
  
"Back on that train in Canada, why did you make me believe that you had   
died? I was your friend – and more than that, I was your father!!" The   
French Immortal felt the tears coming back to his eyes and had to make an   
effort to suppress them, even when their burning sting was setting his   
dark blue eyes on fire.  
  
Very slowly, shaking his head with incredulity, Damon lost the smile that   
had been crossing his lips. "You don't understand it?" he asked softly, as   
if he couldn't believe it. Then he closed his eyes for a brief moment and   
breathed deeply, steeling himself.  
  
"I died that day. You killed me!!" he roared, tears of rage coming to his   
amazing black eyes. "You killed me when you chose him over me. You were my   
father?" Damon asked with sarcasm.  
  
"Well, then, I was your son, Michael. And still, you chose that goddamned   
bloodsucking bastard over me!! You cared so much about him, that you let   
me die to protect him!!"  
  
In spite of the fact that he couldn't see him, Michael shook his head. "I   
didn't know there was a bomb in that carriage!!" he protested. "Don't you   
think that if I'd had the slightest suspicion that you were in danger, I   
would have moved heaven and earth to help you?"  
  
Damon kicked one of the tables with pure rage, knocking it over. "Yeah,   
that was what I used to believe," he growled, "but six months in a   
hospital bed is a lot of time to think, Michael. Six months learning to   
walk again, looking at myself in the mirror and seeing what you did to me   
is a helluva lot of time to get angry!!"  
  
Michael swallowed a thick knot that had formed inside his throat and, for   
a silent moment, leaned his forehead against the stalls beneath the   
counter. Then, his hand bumped into something, a small bowl, and his   
fingers quickly grabbed it, bringing it down.  
  
It had gotten his attention before because, in a smoke-free society like   
the American one, he had found it funny that someone dared to use little   
matchboxes to foster his business.  
  
But there they were, a good bunch of small packages with the restaurant's   
logo, name and address.  
  
He lost no time in getting one of them and lighting up one of the matches,   
that he used to set on fire the rest of the book-like small package.  
  
"Now, when I tell you," he whispered to Joyce as he retrieved the Molotov   
cocktail, "I want you to run as fast as you can to the kitchen," he nodded   
his head to the double doors that led to the mentioned room. "Don't look   
back, don't doubt and don't stop, no matter what you hear, d'accord?"  
  
Biting her lower lip, unable to say anything through her dry throat, Joyce   
just nodded nervously as Michael brought the burning matchbook closer to   
the drenched tie hanging from the bottle's mouth.  
  
"Get out, find a phone and call the warehouse," he continued, "tell   
whoever answers your call what's going on. They'll know what to do. Do you   
understand?"  
  
"Run. Don't look back. Get out. Call the warehouse," she said almost   
mechanically.  
  
Michael managed a small smile for her. "Don't worry," he whispered softly,   
"I do this every day." Joyce snorted without amusement, and both of them   
stood up slightly to a crouched posture. "Ready?"  
  
"No," she whispered back at him with a grim look of fear in her eyes, "but   
I'll do it anyway."  
  
The French Immortal nodded sharply, and brought the flaming matchbox to   
the makeshift fuse. It burst into flames immediately, in Michael's hand.  
  
"Run!!" he exclaimed at the top of his lungs as he stood up.  
  
Everything happened very fast, from that moment on. Joyce and Michael   
emerged from behind the counter, the blonde woman with her eyes fixed on   
the door across the room and her teeth clenched together so tight that she   
feared they were going to break, and the French Immortal bringing his arm   
back, getting ready to throw his projectile.  
  
Instinctively, Damon moved his weapon to follow the first figure to   
appear; Joyce. And his finger curved on the trigger, chasing the running   
woman with a long and thundering burst of bullets that tore a hesitant   
line of holes in the wall behind her as she dogged and jumped over turned   
and fallen chairs and tables.  
  
Until, when at the end she practically threw herself head-first against   
the double doors, disappearing through them, he saw a blood-red spot on   
one of the door's surfaces, right where she had touched it.  
  
And that was when he understood that he had swallowed the bait, hook, line   
and sinker.  
  
The flickering shine of the Molotov cocktail was like a falling star   
calling him in the corner of his eye and, when he instinctively fired   
without control against it, he cursed under his breath, knowing he had   
done the worst thing he could possibly do.  
  
The ascending arch of bullets fired by his submachine-gun hit Michael   
first almost by chance, a projectile painfully digging into his shoulder,   
pushing him back against the wall and leaving him breathless for a short   
instant.  
  
But they also hit the flaming bottle right in the apogee of its flight,   
shattering it and turning the single projectile into a falling rain of   
homemade napalm.  
  
He turned around by pure instinct, raising his shoulders to protect   
himself from the burning liquid as it traced an irregular arch in the air,   
falling on his back and all around him and setting every combustible   
material around him in flames.  
  
He felt the heat of the fire on his face, on every pore of his skin and   
suddenly it was like being back in that carriage when the C4-filled   
briefcase exploded, shattering his life as he had shattered the bottle   
with his gunshots.  
  
The curtains by the windows, the upholstery of the chairs, even the   
linoleum on the floor started to burn. The fire, like a living, hungry   
animal fanned out all over the wall behind Damon, the flames licking up   
every inch of its surface like tiny and flickering tongues, climbing up   
and reaching the ceiling. In a second, the young hit man was surrounded by   
a raging inferno.  
  
Dropping his weapon, refusing to allow panic to take control of his body,   
Damon fought with his burning coat as he took it off, feeling his throat   
closing and his lungs aching with the effort that was breathing in the   
middle of that blaze.  
  
His ears were filled with the hissing sound of the organic solvent digging   
through the thick cashmere layers of his clothing, as it searched for the   
soft tissues of his body, and he quickly discarded it away, throwing it as   
far away as he could.  
  
Roaring with rage, the assassin turned around to face his reluctant   
target, the black holsters under his arms and over his shoulders   
contrasting against his white turtleneck almost like a sign of identity.  
  
There was moment of silence, as the young hit man and the French Immortal   
locked eyes. One standing up in the middle of the fire like a demon from   
Hell, the other one still leaning back against the broken stalls behind   
the counter, holding onto them with his arms spread like a fallen angel.  
  
Dark blue reflected on deep black as they bored into each other's eyes, in   
a battle of wills in which quarter was neither asked for nor given.  
  
Both of them were breathing heavily, their chests rising and falling with   
effort, not because the air was dried and heated by the fire or the   
physical pain in his bodies, but because of deeper, more personal sorrows.  
  
It was difficult to think there, to breathe, to do anything at all apart   
from stare at each other and feel a white-hot rage flowing through their   
veins like molten lava. A rage that was a thousand times hotter than the   
fire blasting around them, feeding from the building, devouring everything   
in its way.  
  
Michael and Damon started to move at the same time, the French Immortal   
with his right hand tightly clenched around the handle of his sword, the   
sandy-haired young man's one flying to the grip of the pistol under his   
left arm.  
  
Michael jumped smoothly onto the counter, and with his gold and silver   
rapier ready to trace a devastating slash, flew the short meters that   
separated him from Damon. Just as the assassin, fast as a rattlesnake,   
drew his automatic Beretta M93R, aimed at Michael's falling figure, and   
pulled the trigger at point-blank range.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
His real name was Diego Velázquez, but he had been called Santero for so   
long that now even he referred to himself by that nickname.  
  
When he'd been a child in the streets of La Havana everybody had called   
him 'pequeño santero', because his mother had been a very popular and   
respected priestess of Santeria., the mix of voodoo rituals, ancient   
African and Catholic beliefs that was the most venerated, and sometimes   
feared, religion of the Caribbean country where he had been born.  
  
Castro, although the Marxist-Leninist line of thought frowned upon any   
kind of religion, had been a bright guy and never had gone against   
Santeria the way he had with the Catholic church after the Cuban   
Revolution.  
  
He knew that the people would never support it, and that some beliefs had   
deeper roots than what any kind of political ideology could ever dig out.  
  
So, Diego el Santero, as he had been known later on in his teenage years,   
had grown up immersed in that creed; venerating la Virgen Santa Maria,   
Madre de Dios, and el sagrado corazón de Jesus.  
  
At the same time, he painted those same effigies with the blood of   
sacrificed chickens, and pledged to ancient African gods whose names   
couldn't be pronounced, except in secret and reverential low hushes.  
  
With the passage of time, when he became an adult and enlisted in the   
Cuban army, his name was shorted once again to 'Santero'; and he had been   
called that since then. In the army, in Uganda during the war, and even in   
Russia when he followed the special forces training with the Soviet   
Spetznaz units.  
  
Now that he was a mercenary, it was something more than a war name, it was   
a description of what he was, of what he believed and what he felt. And   
that precise day, sitting inside the huge black Humvee, looking at the   
bookstore across the street, he felt that something was going to go very   
wrong.  
  
"Are you alright, bud?" the man sat by his side, in the passenger's seat,   
asked him with a thick Australian accent.  
  
As he played with the charm bag hanging from his neck, Santero shook his   
head slowly. "No, Backlash, I'm not alright. I've been feeling something   
the whole day, something in the air... something wrong."  
  
The Australian mercenary exchanged an amused look with one of the two men   
sat behind them, a tall man with white-blond hair, ice-blue eyes and bony   
Scandinavian features that, like Santero and himself was wearing dark and   
almost paramilitary clothes.  
  
Backlash made a face at him, and the tall man shook his head with a thin   
smile. "Should we sacrifice a chicken or something?" he asked, barely   
hiding his laughter.  
  
Santero just looked at him sideways and with disdain; for a second,   
Backlash felt as if something sticky and with a lot of legs was crawling   
up his backbone. But then he just shuddered and shrugged the sensation   
away, as if it was just a product of his imagination.  
  
"Hey, Havoc," he said, turning in his seat to look once more at the tall   
Scandinavian man, "do you also feel like that? Do you have a bad hunch   
too?"  
  
"I'm not scared by that kind of thing," he said succinctly. Then he opened   
slightly his dark jacket to show the gigantic Desert Eagle .50 he carried   
in a holster under his arm. "I'm protected."  
  
Backlash burst out in laughter and shook his head with amusement, facing   
the last of the vehicle's occupants. "And you, Mr. Swann? Do you also feel   
the dark energies at work here?"  
  
The one-eyed man looked at him coldly for a brief moment, and then he   
lowered his only blue eye back to the matter that had had him occupied for   
the last few minutes, the careful polishing of his own nails with a tiny   
nail file.  
  
With his expensive and elegant suit from Saville Row, he looked completely   
out of place in the interior of the military vehicle and between those   
hardened mercenaries.   
  
You should pay a little more attention to what your partner says," he told   
them, raising his eye from his task to look at the store across the street   
only for half a second. "There is power in that place," he said with a   
thin, almost private smile, "sweet power like I haven't felt in years."  
  
Backlash frowned, puzzled, and then shook his head with a expression of   
resignation as he took a compact but potent walkie-talkie from the   
dashboard and, pressing the speaking button, brought it close to his lips.   
"This is Receptor Team here, calling Daddy Goose. Do you copy, Daddy   
Goose?"  
  
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of static coming   
out of the speaker of the small radio, until a deep voice replaced it with   
a deep Southern twang. "Daddy Goose here, Receptor Team. We hear you   
five-by-five, how's everything going, Backlash?"  
  
The Australian mercenary made a soft gesture towards Havoc and the   
Scandinavian man nodded in response, taking a bulky scope and examining   
the bookstore across the street through it. In his blue eyes, the scenery   
was turned into shining and vibrating colors from blue to red as he took a   
thermal scan of the building.  
  
"Bloody boring till now, Chopper," Backlash said into the walkie-talkie,   
"Santero is having one of his bad hunches and the company..." he gave a   
short look towards Conrad Swann out of the corner of his eye and shook his   
head, "...is not helping to make it any funnier. Do you have any news for   
us?"  
  
High in the sky over Sunnydale, Terry Marshall, the mercenary known as   
Chopper smiled as he guided the black Huey with a firm hand, following his   
prey without him having any idea that it was being chased by the   
insect-like helicopter.  
  
He shook his head with amusement and took a short look at the only   
occupant of the cargo area, a red-haired man with edged and freckled   
features that surprisingly resembled the ones of a weasel.  
  
The man smiled maniacally back at him, shaking the Dragunov SDV precision   
rifle he carried in his hands. Then he raised his right hand closed in a   
fist, shook it and opened it, showing the pilot his whole five fingers.  
  
"Sniper sends his regards and says that you can start stretching out your   
sorry Aussie ass," Chopper said with a smile to the mike coming out from   
the huge headphones around his head, "the package's ETA is 15 minutes – I   
repeat, fifteen minutes. Do you copy?"  
  
Inside the black Humvee, Backlash nodded. "Confirm 15 minutes, roger," he   
said, looking at his wristwatch. "The thermal scan indicates one objective   
inside the local, how many in the package?"  
  
On the helicopter, Sniper raised only three fingers.  
  
"Three objectives in the package," Chopper communicated, "I repeat, three   
identified objectives, no variations since the last transmission, do you   
copy?"  
  
"Roger that, Daddy Goose, follow the package till delivery and stay sound.   
Over and out." Backlash placed the walkie-talkie carefully on the   
dashboard and offered a wide, moustache-rounded smile to the rest of his   
companions before looking straight at Santero. "See, compadre? Four   
targets, three kids and an old man – what can go wrong?"  
  
Santero didn't look at or answer him, he just examined the bookstore   
across the street through half-closed eyes and tapped nervously on the   
steering wheel.  
  
In spite of his partner's words, he still had that sensation in his   
stomach, the same one he'd had the whole day.  
  
Something was going to go wrong; he didn't knew what or when or how, but   
he was sure of it. Something was going to go wrong.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
When Damon pulled the trigger of his submachine-gun, there was a   
microsecond in which Michael felt as if the world had stopped its turning   
and he was suspended in the middle of the air. The rapier in his hand   
ready to strike like a silver stinger, as he descended on the sandy-haired   
hit man.  
  
Then, as if in slow-motion, the three-round burst emerged from the gun's   
barrel within a cloud of burnt gunpowder and a flash of fire.  
  
With his handsome features twisted, almost distorted by the effort, the   
French Immortal spun smoothly around his longitudinal axis, as the bang of   
the gunshots finally reached his ears.  
  
The first two flying bullets passed mere inches from his body; one of them   
so close in fact that it went through his coat, passing under his left arm   
and drawing a bloody line on the flesh of his side, right under his ribs.  
  
The third one, nevertheless, hit him right over his last rib, digging into   
his body and puncturing his left lung before coming out by his back.  
  
Blinded by the sudden pain, feeling his own blood filling his lungs, the   
French Immortal slashed blindly as he fell on his intended target and the   
point of his sword traced a thin wound on Damon's left cheek.  
  
For a moment, the long cut remained white and still and then it began to   
bleed, spurting his red vital liquid like a fountain down his fair skin   
and neck.  
  
Michael fell on the sandy-haired man like a ton of bricks. Both men fell   
back against a nearby table, which collapsed under the combined weight of   
their bodies and crashed into pieces to the floor.  
  
Groaning in pain, the two opponents rolled around on the floor, locked in   
a tight embrace as both of them struggled to gain the upper hand in the   
fight.  
  
Grunting, the sandy-haired assassin tried to turn his weapon to aim at   
Michael, but the French Immortal knocked his hand away with the hilt of   
his sword.  
  
While they still rolled on the floor and exchanged hard blows with their   
knees, his free left hand descended on the butt of the Beretta holstered   
under Damon's right arm and he blindly yanked at it, drawing out the   
weapon.  
  
"Shit," the assassin growled, breaking away from him. The two men rolled   
away from each other and got to their knees with similar fluid movements,   
raising the twin pistols at the same time to aim mutually at each other   
with them, the dark muzzles barely inches away from their respective   
throats.  
  
They remained quiet and deadly silent, their flaming eyes locked, their   
guns never waving in their firm grips as the fire blasted around them,   
consuming everything that was flammable, swallowing the whole restaurant   
and turning it into a raging hell.  
  
The flames had engulfed the wall and were quickly licking the ceiling,   
covering it. The old wooden structure of the large room cracked, as its   
own weight began to be more than what it could support; a large section of   
the ceiling fell down, crashing against the floor enveloped into a   
flickering ball of flames.  
  
Still without uttering a word and with their eyes locked into an intense   
battle, Michael and Damon slowly stood up, almost by common accord, aiming   
at each other with the twin Berettas without doubt or hesitation.  
  
"I guess this is what we could technically call a draw," the assassin   
finally whispered, breaking the silence. Michael half-closed his eyes, his   
dark blue orbs misted whether because of the smoke or because of the   
breaking pain in his heart, he couldn't tell.  
  
"Tell me why I shouldn't blow your head off," the French Immortal growled,   
sliding his extended left arm against his son's right one to press the   
mouth of his gun against Damon's neck and, at the same time pressing his   
own neck against his opponent's weapon. "Give me a reason not to kill you   
here and now."  
  
Damon's mouth parted into a crooked and evil smile. "Because if you fire   
the gun as we are right now, the nervous spasm produced by my death will   
fire mine and we both know that all that 'decapitation with swords' crap   
is just a tale for the masses. I just need a bullet to destroy your back   
bone and sever your spinal cord right below your skull."  
  
The assassin's smile grew wider, predatory and cruel. "And what's more   
important, I don't think you have to balls to do it, Michael. Now, you   
tell me, Daddy, do you have what it takes to look me in the eye and kill   
me? Do you have it, huh, Michael?"  
  
Clenching his teeth, Michael cocked up the hammer of his Beretta, the   
metallic sound filling both men's ears even with the roar of the blaze   
around them.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Joyce sighed tiredly, and felt something cold against her face. She needed   
a couple of seconds to understand that the coldness came from the   
porcelain floor of the restaurant's kitchen, where she was lying in a   
precarious state of semi-unconsciousness.  
  
Grunting, feeling her head heavier than usual when she shook it to clear   
her brain, the middle-aged woman pushed against the cold floor with her   
hand to get up.  
  
When she did so, a sharp pain ran through the whole length of her right   
arm and, sitting on the floor, she instinctively brought her left hand to   
her shoulder, the source of the sudden pain. She felt it wet and sticky,   
and, when she took her hand away, Joyce looked her bloodied fingers with a   
curious mix of surprise, fear and amazement.  
  
=I'm wounded,= she thought with incredulity, remembering the moment in   
which she had felt a sharp and sudden pain as she crossed the door, like   
the one produced by a burn.  
  
Coming out of her trance, Joyce ripped off the already gashed shoulder of   
her jacket and examined her wound. Finding, much to her own relief, that   
the bullet hadn't done much more than scratch her skin; and, although it   
still looked nasty and was bleeding quite profusely, it didn't seem really   
threatening.  
  
So, the middle-aged woman stood up to her feet and, pressing tightly on   
the wound to stop the bleeding, she looked around in search of the   
backdoor that had been mentioned by the dead waiter, quickly spotting it   
and crossing the kitchen to it.  
  
Leaning her right hand on the handle, Joyce tried to turn it and found   
that it was locked. Blinking with incredulity, she pulled at it once more,   
then she shook and yanked at it with all her strength, but the door didn't   
move an inch.  
  
Leaning her forehead against the door, muttering a curse between her   
clenched teeth, Joyce had to make an effort not to start kicking it.  
  
"These people haven't heard about the fire department's regulations?" she   
asked out loud, as she turned around and started walking back to the   
kitchen's doors. "I should report them."  
  
Reaching the double doors, Joyce spied the interior of the restaurant   
through the small rounded windows in them, not noticing the tiny rivulets   
of smoke that were slipping through the crack beneath them. And when she   
saw what was happening inside the restaurant, she felt her own eyes   
opening wide as saucers.  
  
The whole dining room was burning in a blazing pyre, the furniture   
enveloped by the flames that were being obscured by a thick cloud of dark   
smoke. And, standing in the middle of it all as if it had nothing to do   
with them, Michael and the sandy-haired assassin were aiming guns at each   
other, immobile and still.  
  
"No, no, no..." she whispered, turning around and quickly walking to   
nearest sink. As fast as she could, Joyce took off her jacket, grimacing   
in pain when she flexed her wounded shoulder and folded it, putting it   
under the sink's faucet and thoughtfully drenching it.  
  
Then she returned to the double doors. And, gathering all the valor she   
could find inside her shaken and scared body and soul, she took a deep   
breath, covered her nose and mouth with the wet clothing, and crossed   
through back into the burning dining room.  
  
As she carefully entered that inferno, sidestepping the flaming furniture   
with tearful eyes because of the pungent smoke produced by the burning   
linoleum, she considered calling Michael's attention; but then thought   
that it wouldn't be a good idea right then.  
  
Apart from the fact that she doubted she could be of any help to the   
French Immortal, she didn't wanted to distract him from his compromising   
position. And so she just focused in doing what he had told her, getting   
out from the restaurant to find a phone and call Xander and the rest of   
the Archangels.  
  
And, to top it all off, she knew that a distraction, a moment of doubt   
could cost her own life in the middle of that blaze.  
  
Near her, Damon looked at her figure over Michael's shoulder and directed   
an amused smile towards his adoptive father. "That woman has guts, but   
that's not surprising; you've always known how to choose them well,   
Michael. How's Rachel, by the way?"  
  
Michael pressed his gun roughly against his neck, making the long muzzle   
dig painfully into his flesh. "Don't bring her into this," he warned the   
young hit man with a hiss, "this is between you and me."  
  
The sandy-haired assassin just raised an eyebrow, and smiled coldly. "I   
just wanted to let you know how happy I am that the two of you are finally   
together. Damn it Michael, I saw you two dancing in that night-club and   
you just looked so good together..." he shook his head with amusement,   
offering him his most saccharine sweet smile, and then he let out a long   
sigh.  
  
"It's a damn shame you took so long to tell her how you felt towards her."   
Then, the smile disappeared from his lips and black eyes, replaced by a   
cold, heartless expression. "It must be killing you to know that I got   
there first..."  
  
His first thought was that he was lying, trying to throw him off-balance,   
but looking straight at his cold black eyes, the French Immortal   
understood that Damon was speaking the truth.  
  
The blood vanished from Michael's face for the second time that day and,   
for the first time since the face-off had started, his hand hesitated just   
for the slightest second.  
  
It was time enough for the young assassin to take advantage of it.  
  
As fast as a serpent, Damon lifted his right foot to kick him but Michael,   
who wasn't slower by any means, quickly came out of his trance and   
imitated his movement, almost as if they were thinking the same thing.  
  
So fast that it almost couldn't be followed with the naked eye, they   
placed the soles of their risen feet on each other's bellies and pushed   
with all their strength, not so much to destabilize each other as to jump   
backwards and away from their dead-end draw.  
  
Immediately, even before their backs touched the overheated floor, they   
opened fire with their guns against each other, sending mutual clouds of   
bullets that ripped holes in the floor and the burning furniture,   
miraculously not hitting either one of them.  
  
Nevertheless, Joyce felt a couple of projectiles passing near her body and   
without even thinking about it, the blonde woman threw herself to the   
floor, covering her head with her hands.  
  
She lost her makeshift mask and her lungs were filled with the acrid   
smoke, making her cough. A low creaking sound, like the one that would   
came from a rotten tree about to fall reached her ears and Joyce raised   
her swollen and irritated eyes towards the darkened ceiling.  
  
She couldn't swear to it, but she thought that she had seen it shaking.  
  
Michael rolled over his shoulder, dodging Damon's shots; returning them   
through the thick smoke, that was beginning to fill the interior of the   
restaurant as he checked out of the corner of his eye that Joyce was still   
moving.  
  
A burst from the young hit man's gun passed a few inches from his face,   
and the French Immortal crouched down beside the counter, aiming at   
Damon's moving figure. Pulling the trigger as he rolled on the floor and   
jumped into one of the booths, from which refuge Michael promptly returned   
the gunfire.  
  
The projectiles ripped out a large chunk from the counter right by the   
French Immortal's head and he quickly spun on the spot, letting himself   
fall to the floor and lying on his back.  
  
He used his two feet to push against the counter with all his strength and   
slid over the floor, emptying the clip against the sandy-haired refuge as   
he moved.  
  
When he was close enough to one of the booths, Michael rolled over his   
shoulder and jumped backwards, ending like a shapeless ball inside its   
momentary protection.   
  
"Yee-haah!! You have to admit, that was goddamn intense!!" Damon exclaimed   
with joy, his back against the separating wall of the booth as his thumb   
ejected the empty clip of his gun and he replaced it with a fresh one.  
  
"Still, I noticed you looked a little... unsettled. Don't tell me that you   
didn't know! She never told you? Tsk, tsk..." he shook his head, with a   
smile of wonder. "That kinda gives you something to think about, wouldn't   
you say?"  
  
"Shut your filthy mouth!!" Michael closed his eyes and took long and deep   
breaths, leaning the barrel of the gun against his forehead as he tried to   
calm his rage. "You are sick, Damon!!" he shouted, trying to spot the   
place where he had lost his sword during the fight.  
  
Inside his booth, the sandy-haired hit man nodded in agreement. "Is that a   
clinical opinion? But what the heck, you're right. I don't need to pay 200   
bucks an hour to some idiot shrink to tell me that I have an Oedipus   
complex."  
  
Damon paused. "You know, I want to shag my Mom and kill my Dad," he leaned   
slightly to the border of the booth and took a look outside, his mouth   
stretched out once more in a cruel smile. "And I've already done the first   
part..."  
  
What broke inside Michael, he couldn't tell; all he knew was that   
something started to ache inside him, and then a numbing sensation   
engulfed his whole being. For a second, it felt like it had over 300 years   
before, when the shadow of death fell on him the first time – and he'd   
faced that darkness, that fear, lost and alone.  
  
He felt like he was dead.  
  
Michael came of the booth, raised his gun and pulled the trigger one time   
after another as he walked between the growing flames towards Damon's   
refuge with decided steps, empty shells flying in the air as he reduced   
the space between them and riddled the thin separation wall with   
bullet-holes.  
  
Crouched behind it, Damon waited until the French Immortal's weapon   
clicked empty and then emerged from his hole in time to see him discarding   
the useless gun away. The sandy-haired assassin raised his one, pulling   
the trigger.  
  
The French Immortal's left shoulder exploded into a mist of blood but,   
even when it hurt like hell, he didn't slow his pace. In a moment he was   
above the young hit man, slapping his gun away and hitting him with his   
open palm in his solar plexus with enough force to lift him a couple of   
inches off the floor.  
  
Then, Michael spun around and hit him across the face with the back of his   
closed fist, violently twisting his head to one side.  
  
Thrown backwards by the force of the strike, Damon landed on his back on a   
table and quickly rolled over his shoulder, placing the table between them   
as a barrier as he checked the integrity of his lower jaw.  
  
"Was it something I said?" he asked, with a devilish gleam in his eye.  
  
Without uttering a word, too angry even to speak coherently, Michael   
jumped on the table, ready to launch himself over Damon. But before he   
could do it, the sandy-haired assassin kicked his foothold from under his   
feet and the French Immortal had to take a leap, spinning over his son's   
whole figure to land at his back with some resemblance of equilibrium.  
  
Only to find Damon's feet colliding against his chest, with a side kick   
that sent him flying backwards to the floor.  
  
Not far away from them, Joyce stood up to her knees and shook her head,   
coughing with the smoke and wondering how the two men could do anything in   
the middle of that blaze when she was having problems even finding the   
exit.  
  
She was starting to feel lightheaded and understood that was getting   
intoxicated by the smoke, and that time was getting painfully short for   
her and probably for the two men fighting across the room.  
  
Michael jumped to his feet, pushing against the floor with his   
shoulder-blades and arching his back like a cat, just in time to block   
Damon's next blow, trapping his left hand and twisting it.  
  
He was about to hit him with a devastating slash to his throat, when the   
flickering light of the fire reflected off the young hit man's bronze   
ring, hitting his eyes and making him blink.  
  
Instinctively, the French Immortal turned his head to look at it and, when   
he saw what it was, he felt as if somebody had put a new nail into the lid   
of his coffin. He looked at the seal with his mouth twisted into a grimace   
of pain and rage, at the symbol engraved on it and then back at his son;   
unable to recognize the boy he had brought up and loved in those hard and   
cold eyes.  
  
It was the symbol of the Order of Taraka, the ancient society of   
assassins.  
  
The French Immortal roared with fury and his left hand flew to Damon's   
neck, grabbing him with a tight grasp. Lifting them from the floor as if   
he didn't weigh a thing, Michael smashed his back against the table,   
leaning over him as tall as he was.  
  
"You bastard," he growled, shaking his head with incredulity, still   
grasping his neck and wrist, "how could you... ?"  
  
"Easy," Damon cut him with a ragged whisper, holding his father's hard   
stare, "you put me into a wheelchair, and they took me out of it. They   
gave me a reason for living, Michael. Revenge."  
  
Michael tightened his grasp on Damon's throat, and the sandy-haired young   
man grunted with pain as the air was choked out of his lungs.  
  
"So?" the French Immortal asked with a new growl. "Is this business, or is   
it personal?"  
  
Damon looked back at him, hard and without any trace of shame or   
repentance in his cold black eyes. "What did you teach me, Michael?   
Killing is always business..." the assassin shook his right wrist and a   
short dagger appeared from under the sleeve of his turtleneck, "...and   
it's always personal."  
  
Before he even knew what was happening, Michael felt the blade of Damon's   
dagger entering his side and the young hit man stabbed him right under his   
ribcage, painfully twisting the blade inside the wound before extracting   
it, followed by a thick stream of dark arterial blood.  
  
Letting go of his son, Michael recoiled away from the sandy-haired   
assassin, holding his wound with his right hand as he backpedaled and   
dodged Damon's fast slashes, the bright blade tracing arcs of silver in   
search for his throat and heart.  
  
Then, the French Immortal stumbled upon a fallen chair and fell to the   
ground on his behind. The air choked out of his lungs with the impact as   
Damon towered over him, turning the short knife in his hand until he was   
grabbing it blade down, the sharp edge tightly pressed against his   
forearm.  
  
"I've always wanted you to know one thing," he whispered through clenched   
teeth. "I am better than him. You made a choice and it was the wrong one,   
Michael... because I am the best."  
  
Michael looked at him with hard eyes, but said nothing at all. Damon knelt   
down beside him, tilting his head to one side to look at him with   
half-closed eyes. "Don't you have anything to say?"  
  
The French Immortal nodded slowly. "Look up."  
  
Frowning in confusion, Damon did it without thinking; only to find a   
blurred object tracing an arc towards him and then colliding against his   
face, shattering into pieces with the impact and sending his body flying   
backwards and away from the French Immortal's fallen figure.  
  
Michael let his head fall back, and let out a long and tired sigh. "Nice   
strike," he whispered.  
  
Joyce threw away the broken remains of the chair, and offered her hand to   
the fallen man so he could stand up. "Well, I had a rough divorce," she   
told him with a smile.  
  
A couple of meters from them, Damon began to stand up, shaking his head   
and wiping the blood flowing from his nose. "I've said it before and I'll   
say it again, Dad, you sure know how to pick 'em well."  
  
The middle-aged woman looked at the younger man with distaste as she   
helped Michael to stand up, allowing him to rest his broken frame on her.   
"We have to get out of here," she whispered to him, "this place is about   
to fall down on top of us."  
  
As if on cue, the low cracking sound she had heard before came again to   
her ears, but this time longer and higher until the three of them raised   
their eyes to the ceiling. Only to see a long crack appearing on its burnt   
surface, that grew longer and longer until it was crossing practically all   
of the room from wall to wall.  
  
The noise reached a high-pitched tone. And then, as Damon jumped to one   
side and Michael to the other, bringing Joyce with him, a large section of   
the ceiling crumbled down over them. Falling wrapped into a ball of   
flames, and sending burning debris everywhere when it crashed against the   
floor.  
  
Both Michael and Joyce quickly stood up, slapping the burning coals from   
each other before they could set their clothes aflame. After they'd   
checked that they were relatively unharmed, they turned around in search   
for an exit.  
  
Only to find that they were trapped against the wall, by the barrier of   
burning debris. "What now?" the middle-aged woman asked her companion.  
  
On the other side of the barrier, Damon saluted them with a playful and   
disrespectful bow. "Michael, Michael," he said, wiping the blood that   
flowed from the cut in his cheek and from his nose, "you have to admit   
that this is pretty ironic, Dad."  
  
His face turned suddenly into a mask of anger, and he brought his hand to   
the neck of his white turtleneck, ripping it open to expose the ugly burn   
scar of his shoulder. "I burned for you, and now you're going to burn for   
me."  
  
"This is not over, Damon," Michael warned him, placing himself between   
Joyce and the roaring flames of the barrier, "not by any means."  
  
"And who says I want this to end?" Damon asked, spreading his arms to wave   
at the scenery around them as he started to walk away from them and to the   
exit. "This is just the warming-up. I bet you'll survive a little fire   
like this, but it'll be funny to see how you manage to get your friend   
over there out unharmed."  
  
Then, he turned around and calmly walked away to the door, showing his   
back to the two of them. "Damon!!" Michael called him at the last possible   
moment.  
  
The sandy-haired assassin stopped dead in his tracks and looked at him   
over his shoulder, expectantly.  
  
"You don't have to do this," Michael said.  
  
Damon smiled slowly and, almost with sadness, shook his head in denial.   
"You don't know me at all, Michael. And now I wonder if you've ever really   
known me."  
  
Walking backwards, he moved the index finger of his right hand like the   
needle of a metronome. "Tick-tock, Dad, I guess you still have a couple of   
minutes till the house falls down. The clock is ticking, tick-tock."  
  
Then, he just walked out of the burning restaurant, leaving Michael and   
Joyce alone and trapped behind a growing wall of flames.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Inside the car, the tension in the air was so thick that it could be cut   
with a knife. Maybe, in Giles' opinion, even with a badly sharpened and   
rusty one.  
  
Buffy sat beside him, in the passenger's seat, with her arms crossed over   
her chest and her golden brow frowning as she looked at the window-shield,   
her legs crossed and her lifted feet constantly moving back and forth.  
  
Cordelia, in the back seat, was in a similar mood and practically in the   
same position; only, now and then, she took her hazel eyes away from the   
window to stab the back of the Slayer's neck with a hard stare.  
  
After more than a quarter of an hour of complete and unnerving silence and   
deadly stares exchanged through the lopsided rearview mirror, the whole   
situation was beginning to get on the British Watcher's nerves.  
  
"Well, uh," he said, trying to figure what to say to break the mood as he   
changed gears with a scratching sound from the transmission.   
  
"I'm sorry for being so late, but I had a little problem with the..." the   
old engine of the Citroen made a sound like a human cough, and the whole   
car seemed to shake, "...car."  
  
"It doesn't matter," Buffy whispered, without looking straight at him.  
  
"No?" Cordelia asked with a risen eyebrow. "I thought you would've liked   
someone to hold Xander while you punched him in the gut."  
  
Buffy turned around in a flash and looked at her, with hostile half-closed   
eyes. "I'm getting tired of that kind of commentary," she warned the   
brunette.  
  
"Oh, really?" Cordelia asked with sarcasm. "And what are you going to do   
about it? Wound me with your stingy words?"  
  
The blonde Slayer just shook her closed fist at her. "I have something for   
you that hurts more than words."  
  
"Come on, give me your best-"  
  
"Stop!!" Giles exclaimed, making the two of the jump in their seats with   
surprise. "That's enough! Can't the two of you start behaving like a   
couple of responsible adults?"  
  
The two young women sat back with aggrieved expression, crossing their   
arms over their chests. "It's not good for you to get so angry," Buffy   
muttered.  
  
"Yeah, we were just talking," Cordelia agreed in the same tone.  
  
Giles just looked at them out of the corner of his eyes and tightened his   
grip on the steering-wheel, letting out a tired sigh. "Anyway, I seem to   
deduce by your words and attitude that the meeting with Xander didn't go   
as well as planned."  
  
"Unless you consider that calling him a killer is a nice way of handling   
things," Cordelia challenged once more.  
  
"I don't remember calling him that," Buffy answered, making an effort not   
to shout.  
  
"Something very similar, then." Cordelia sighed and shook her head.   
"Buffy, do you really think that Xander deserves to be treated like you   
did?"  
  
"I didn't say anything that wasn't true," the Slayer defended herself.  
  
"Better to say that you believe it's true. Listen, I've been talking with   
Xander and I'm not going to lie to you, some of the things you said made   
sense to me; he's burying himself alive, throwing layers and layers of   
self-guilt over himself and he's not even noticing it."  
  
"Then why are you angry with me?" her blonde friend asked, confused.  
  
"Because you think that he has reasons to blame himself, that what he did   
and what he does is wrong enough to blame him for it and I don't, Buffy.   
You want to help him?" she looked at her friend, with an open and sincere   
expression.  
  
"Great, that's fine with me, but you have to understand that it's your   
help he needs, not your recriminations."  
  
Buffy had to look away from Cordelia's intense stare, beginning to feel a   
little guilty about the whole matter. "Still," she insisted, "the problem   
is that I think that what he did was wrong."  
  
"Maybe it wasn't the best thing to do," the brunette admitted, "but maybe   
it was the only one."  
  
"There are always other ways," Giles said thoughtfully, entering into the   
conversation as he turned around the last corner before his bookstore and   
began to reduce the speed of the vehicle.  
  
"Anyway, we're almost at the store, I recommend we have a good cup of tea   
and calm down a little, before talking about all this again. I'm sure   
we'll figure something out, once we've had a little rest and our minds are   
clearer," the Watcher said.  
  
As the British man started to handle the car to park it in an empty space   
in front of the store, the two young women sharing it with him remained   
silent, neither of them very sure of what he had just said.  
  
Their positions were just too opposed on some points, one could say that   
they were almost antagonistic in their way of seeing them. And neither of   
them was very sure of what they would have to concede in order to reach   
common ground.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Across the street, the four men inside the black Humvee watched with   
different degrees of interest, as the vintage Citroen DS parked in front   
of the bookstore and its three occupants got out from it with grim   
expressions.  
  
"Daddy Goose here," came Chopper's voice from the walkie-talkie's speaker.   
"Package delivered, guys. It's all yours now."  
  
"Roger that," Santero answered the call. "Stay around in case of need,   
OK?"  
  
"Roger, be careful, ladies," the pilot said, with a trace of amusement in   
his voice.  
  
"Mmm, fresh pussy," Backlash commented rudely, eyeing with lustful   
appreciative eyes at the two beautiful young women. "I'm beginning to like   
this assignment."  
  
Behind him, Swann looked at him with an expression of deep distaste, but   
abstained from making any comment. Santero just sighed and shook his head,   
his bad feeling growing with each passing minute. "Who's going to go?"  
  
"I'll go," Backlash volunteered himself, still ogling maliciously at the   
short blonde and the sculptural brunette. "It could be fun."  
  
"It'll be better if it's me who goes," Havoc said with a lopsided smile at   
seeing his partner's lustful expression, already opening the door to get   
out of the military off-road vehicle and adjusting a tiny headphone inside   
his right hear. "At least I'm still able to think with something other   
than my dick."  
  
"Call if you have any problems, OK?" Santero told him as the tall   
Scandinavian man checked his gun and nodded.  
  
"If you need help with a few girls and an old man, I'm going to lose my   
respect for you, buddy," Backlash said with an accomplished smile.   
"Anyway, I would love to help you with those babes as much as you need."  
  
"Hey," the Hispanic mercenary cut off the exchange with a serious   
expression. "We're on a mission, don't forget that. So let's do this fast   
and professional. They have something we want; we go in, take it and get   
out, it's as simple as that."  
  
"Do we eliminate them once we get it?" Havoc asked, leaning his tall and   
broad frame on the jeep and keeping an eye on the store's door across the   
street. "The mission parameters say that they're all expendable."  
  
"All of them but the Englishman," Swann corrected him. "We may need him,   
in case we have any problems with the object."  
  
"I thought that was your job," Backlash observed with a risen eyebrow.  
  
The elegant one-eyed man just gave him a hard stare. "I'm here just in a   
counselor's capacity, and my advice to you is to keep that man alive and   
not to underestimate those people's abilities. Not everything is what it   
seems."  
  
The Australian mercenary arched his brow with incredulity, but said   
nothing. "Go," Santero told Havoc, "call when you have the situation   
controlled. Don't start any nonsense."  
  
The Scandinavian man nodded and started crossing the street to the   
bookstore's entrance, followed by his partners' eyes. Then, Santero shook   
his head with a sigh. "I have a bad feeling about this..."  
  
Backlash rolled his eyes, and groaned in pain.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Looking around himself, feeling his clothes plastered on his skin with the   
sweat breaking out his body and his lungs aching with the effort of   
breathing, Michael took off his coat; he grimaced in pain, with the   
movement of the still-healing wounds on his shoulder and side.  
  
"Any plan?" Joyce asked him between two coughs, keeping her head low where   
the air was still reasonably unpolluted. "He was right, we've little time   
left before the structure collapses down on us."  
  
"It's worse than that," Michael said, extending the coat in front of him   
like a cape. "When you were in the kitchen, did you notice if the stoves   
functioned with gas?"  
  
The blonde woman closed her eyes, and stifled a curse. "Uh-oh..."  
  
"That's what I thought," Michael sighed. "D'accord, we are going out now."  
  
"How?" she asked him.  
  
The French Immortal pointed at the flaming barrier where it was less tall,   
reaching about the height of his abdomen. "Follow me, and don't stop."  
  
"I won't," she assured him, nodding firmly.  
  
"Ready?" at Joyce's nod, Michael started to count. "Three... two..."  
  
"'Three, two, one' or 'three, two, one, now'?" she cut him off.  
  
Michael just looked at her sideways, and Joyce offered him a small smile   
as a excuse. "Better with the 'now'."  
  
"Yeah, better..." he growled, managing a smile in spite of the   
circumstances. "Three... two... one... now!"  
  
Michael threw the coat over the barrier, suffocating the flames for a   
short moment, and then helped Joyce to quickly climb up the coat-covered   
area, quickly following her when the middle-aged woman jumped off the pile   
of debris. "Ale, ale!! Don't stop!"  
  
The thick fabric of the coat began to burn under the Immortal's feet and   
he jumped off the barrier before the flames enveloped his legs, landing   
awkwardly on the floor and clenching his teeth not to scream when a sharp   
pain ran over his wounds.  
  
"What did you say about not stopping?" Joyce said with a grunt as she made   
an effort to help his heavier frame to his feet.  
  
Hand in hand so as to not get separated, the two of them ran like mad   
towards the exit door, blinded by the smoke and the fire, their lungs   
aching and their skins covered with sweat and soot.  
  
"It's closed!!" Joyce exclaimed as they got closer to it.  
  
Not uttering a word and not stopping his pace, Michael grabbed a burning   
chair and threw it against the closed door with enough force to shatter   
its glass and open it just a crack.  
  
Then, releasing Joyce's hand, the French Immortal crashed shoulder-first   
against it, practically ripping it from its hinges and falling to the   
bright clarity outside and to the hard concrete, coughing painfully like a   
madman.  
  
Jumping over him and kneeling down beside his fallen and wounded form,   
Joyce grabbed him by his armpits and started dragging him away from the   
flames, coming out the door and the broken windows at full force.  
  
"Come on," she whispered weakly to him as she managed to make him stand up   
and they ran behind the protecting line of parked cars by the sidewalk,   
"this place is about to..."  
  
The explosion cut her words off and rocked the whole line of cars with a   
deafening blast of thunder, starting their anti-theft alarms. It also   
shattered most of their windows, as a huge ball of fire came out from the   
broken door and windows of the restaurant; it ascended into the air,   
turning into black smoke.  
  
Michael and Joyce covered their heads, to protect themselves from the   
falling rain of glass fragments. They hugged each other instinctively   
until the last echoes of the explosion disappeared in the air, substituted   
by the crackling sound of the fire at their backs and the screams of   
sirens in the distance.  
  
Sitting on the road and with his back against a parked car, Michael took a   
look over the car's hood at the burning restaurant.  
  
"I hope they had a good insurance policy," he whispered, leaning his head   
back against the car and closing his eyes, as he took long and calm   
breaths.  
  
The blonde woman finally lifted her face from his chest, and looked at him   
seriously. "Is going out with you always this exciting?" she asked,   
leaning her forehead on his shoulder and still hugging him as if he was a   
lifesaver.  
  
The French Immortal snorted, and arched his brow in wonder. "And I didn't   
take you out for a dance!"  
  
Around them, people began to crowd on the other side of the street like   
curious vultures, looking at the scene now that it seemed that the   
immediate danger had passed.  
  
Spike had once said half-jokingly, that it was easy to tell if an   
Archangel had passed by any particular place recently – you just had to   
check whether or not it looked like a war zone.  
  
Now, while the restaurant consumed itself to a wrecked ruin at their back   
and the destroyed police car did the same in the middle of the road – and   
as a row of ambulances, fire-trucks and police cars seemed to come out   
from nowhere – Michael thought that the peroxide-blonde vampire had never   
been as right as he had in that observation.  
  
"That man..." Joyce asked him quietly. "was he really your son?"  
  
Michael shook his head weakly. "I don't know," he whispered, raising his   
eyes to the blue sky and the black cloud of smoke darkening it. "I   
sincerely do not know."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
  
to be continued... 


	3. Part 3 of 10

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book III, part 3 of 10  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general   
corrections by Theo  
  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow   
kissing and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial,   
Land of 'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline   
to accommodate it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy'   
happened a lot later than it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are   
only tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of   
Highlander-style immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole   
'Immortals have no parents and are found in a little basket' is a... um,   
the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada', so let's just ignore it, OK?  
  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit,   
merely for the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander,   
Willow, Oz, Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle   
Gorch, Quentin Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property   
of Joss Whedon, Warner Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of   
Highlander and the characters mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda   
Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the Society of Watchers) are the   
property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the   
World Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are   
copyright of their respective rights owners.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language,   
so any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my   
wonderful beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please   
be kind with me. I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child,   
believe me.  
  
SUMMARY: Broderick Egoyan has carefully chosen the right moment to strike,   
when friends are against friends and all trust seems about to vanish   
between Slayerettes and Archangels. It's right when you think things   
couldn't get worse that they get worse.  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen,   
because it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book III  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as The Sergeant  
Benjamin Bratt as Santero  
Trevor Goddar as Backlash  
Dolph Lundgren as Havoc  
Rob Rowland as Chopper  
Jake Busey as Sniper  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Matthew Ferguson as Chip  
  
Bill Paxton as Major Stephen Marsden, USAF  
Tom Sizemore as Master Sergeant Ricky Perkins, USAF  
John Leguizamo as Airman First Class Charlie Martinelli, USAF  
Mario Lopez as Airman First Class Alonso 'Bear' Vasquez, USAF  
Patrick Labyorteaux as Sergeant Edwin Walters, USAF  
  
Richard Dean Anderson as Col. Jack O'Neill, USAF  
Michael Shanks as Dr. Daniel Jackson  
Amanda Tapping as Maj. Samantha Carter, USAF  
Christopher Judge as Teal'c  
Don S. Davis as Gen. George Hammond, USAF  
Teryl Rothery as Dr. Janet Fraiser  
Tom McBeath as Col. Harry Mayborne, USAF  
Peter Deluise as Airman Shepard, USAF  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
and  
  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Willow was hungry. She hadn't had breakfast, or gone out for a meal the   
whole morning. She had just sat at the table in Giles' back room, her arms   
crossed over her chest and her chin leaned on them; looking alternately at   
the phone or the door, waiting for Oz to call or come back, or   
something...   
  
She had been waiting and kicking herself for her own stupidity, trying to   
figure out what to do to work things out, if there was still a way to do   
that, and above all trying to figure out her own feelings.  
  
How did she feel about Spike? Physically attracted, yes, like Cordelia had   
pointed out the day before, as any hot-blooded straight female would be.  
  
Did she love him? Hard question – she felt something for him, a connection   
that was beyond normal friendship. She was able to understand him as she   
hadn't thought would be possible in the short time they had been friends.   
But, was she in love with him?  
  
No. It was simple as that.  
  
Not because she thought Spike would be a person with whom, in other   
circumstances, she would never fall in love with; but because that part of   
her heart and soul had already an owner, and she just couldn't conceive a   
future with any person that wasn't Oz.  
  
She couldn't look into the future and not see herself waking up every   
morning by his side, being one with him, his woman, his partner in love   
and life.  
  
But then, why had she felt that impulse last night? Because, for a scant   
moment, she had actually wanted Spike to kiss and make love to her on the   
that same table. Was it possible to love two different men at the same   
time? She didn't think so.  
  
So, she had tried to analyze the real reasons of her attraction to the   
bleached-hair vampire. Apart from the purely physical ones, the ones   
mentioned by Cordy regarding his nice ass and handsome looks, there was   
the fact that he was all that Oz wasn't and, by association, her neither.  
  
He was dark, and dangerous, and passionate and, in spite of his enlarged   
life-span, lived each moment of it as if it was the last, enjoying and   
savoring it to the full.  
  
Not that Oz wasn't passionate in his own way, but the young werewolf was   
more like a cold fire that burned slow and calm; the total opposite to the   
fiery blaze that the bleached-hair vampire seemed to be, and that consumed   
everything in its path... maybe even herself now.  
  
Oz was safe. Spike was danger. Oz was comfortable. Spike was adventure.  
  
She heard the sound of the main door opening and quickly stood up, walking   
to the backroom's door to peek outside. "Oz?" she asked hopefully.  
  
"No, it's us, Willow," Giles said, leaving his keys on the counter, "what   
are you still doing here?"  
  
"I had nothing better to do," she shrugged. As she saw the grim faces of   
her three friends, Willow understood that she hadn't been the only one   
having a rough morning that day. "Has something happened?" she asked   
worriedly.  
  
With a sour look, Cordelia brushed past her and into the back room. "Why   
don't you ask the immaculate Slayer over there?"  
  
Buffy stabbed her back with a hard stare and, when Willow looked at her   
with expectancy, rolled her eyes with resignation. "We've had a discussion   
with Xander," she told her red-haired friend.  
  
"A discussion?" the apprentice witch shook her head with puzzlement. "What   
do you mean?"  
  
The ding of the main door's bell got their attention and the three of them   
turned their heads towards it, watching in amusement how a large man with   
white-blonde hair and cold blue eyes walked into the store, practically   
leaning down not to bang his head against the door's frame.  
  
"Good morning," he greeted them with a roughly accented voice.  
  
The trio returned the salutation with wonder, trying to remember when was   
the last time that an unknown customer had walked into the store.  
  
Then Giles suddenly remembered his obligations as the place's owner,   
pushing the two young women to the back room. "Umm, why don't you go in   
there and try to talk about all this in a hushed tone while I attend to   
the gentleman?"  
  
Buffy nodded in silence and grabbed Willow's hand, practically dragging   
the redhead into the back room, leaving her Watcher to deal with the tall   
man. Giles turned around, and offered his best smile to the tall stranger.   
"Can I help you?"  
  
The tall blonde man smiled and, as he walked closer to him, Giles wondered   
how it was possible that a man with such a massive physique could move   
almost in absolute silence.  
  
He took a look at his dark clothes, the black leather bomber jacket, the   
combat boots and black pants with the end of its legs carefully stuffed   
inside them, and frowned. This man didn't look at all like one of his   
usual customers.  
  
"I'm in search of an item, a very special one, and I heard you could help   
me with it," the man said, and Giles thought that his accent was   
Scandinavian, probably from Sweden or Denmark.  
  
"I, uh, I'm sorry," he said, adjusting his rounded spectacles over his   
nose, "but we only sell books here. Now, if you tell me exactly what are   
you looking for I could-"  
  
The man offered him a folded piece of paper and Giles took it carefully   
from his fingers, opening it and, after adjusting his glasses once more,   
reading it.  
  
Then, he couldn't help but to arch his brow in wonder and dread, and feel   
his heart beating faster inside his chest. "Is this some kind of joke?"  
  
When he raised his eyes from the note, the British Watcher found himself   
face to face with the wrong end of the biggest gun he had ever seen. He   
gulped down noisily and, when he managed to focus his vision and look   
beyond the bottomless muzzle of the black gun, he found that the blonde   
stranger was smiling from ear to ear.  
  
He cocked the weapon, and the mechanical sound seemed to thunder inside   
Giles' ears. "Do I look like a clown?" the Scandinavian man asked.  
  
Giles shook his head. Slowly. Very Slowly.  
  
"Then why would you think I'm joking?"  
  
The British man opened his mouth to answer, but the armed man grabbed him   
roughly by the shoulder and made him turn around, pressing the gun against   
the back of his neck.  
  
"Move," the man commanded, "and don't try to do anything weird, or the   
last thing you'll see will be your brains coming out of your mouth, OK?"  
  
"If this is a hold-up," Giles said, trying to sound calm with little   
success, "I must warn you that you've come to the wrong store."  
  
"This is not a hold-up," the stranger told him, pushing him to the back   
room, "and I'm in the right store."  
  
Inside the back room the air was heating up again, as Cordelia and Buffy   
increased once again the tone of their argument and Willow looked   
alternately at them with a worried expression. "...and if you weren't   
always so self-absorbed in your own problems, you would notice how much   
you've hurt Xander!" Cordelia yelled.  
  
"Me? Me?" Buffy shouted back with incredulity. "You're calling me   
self-absorbed? If you weren't so worried about doing your nails, maybe you   
would have noticed what's really going on!!"  
  
"Oh-oh-oh!! Well, excuse me!! I'm more worried about my boyfriend than a   
bunch of homicidal psychos, I'm sorry!!"  
  
"Uh, girls..." Giles tried to call their attention. "Could you...? I mean,   
could you...?"  
  
Behind him, Havoc raised his gun and pulled the trigger once, the   
thundering roar of the gunshot shaking them all as a thin rain of plaster   
fragments fell on Giles' head from the ceiling.  
  
"Giles!! What the-!!" Buffy yelled, covering her ears with her hands and   
cutting herself off when she saw the stranger, the gun and the hold he had   
on the middle-aged Watcher. "Giles?"  
  
"I think that what the gentleman is trying to say is: could you lend us   
your attention for a while, please?" Then, the man twisted his neck in an   
awkward way and spoke into the collar of his shirt. "I'm in."  
  
Outside, in the black Humvee, Santero and Backlash grabbed their weapons   
and opened the doors of the jeep, getting out of it.  
  
"Aren't you coming?" the Hispanic mercenary asked the one-eyed man in the   
back seat, who just remained still and smiled politely at him.  
  
"Didn't your friend say something about an old man and a couple of babes?"   
he asked back, with a gleam of amusement in his lonely blue eye. "I   
wouldn't want to be in the way of a group of such... obviously   
well-trained professionals."  
  
Santero sent a scolding look towards his Australian partner, who just   
shrugged with disinterest.  
  
"He talks too much," he muttered under his breath, before the two of them   
started to cross the street towards the bookstore, hiding the weapons   
under their jackets.  
  
Back inside the bookstore's back room, Buffy and Cordelia looked at each   
other with a mix of surprise and worry. And then at Willow, who just   
looked back at them with the same expression reflected on her face and   
then at the man's gun, as it slowly waved from one to the other.  
  
"Is this a hold-up?" the redhead asked meekly, slowly lifting her hands.   
Havoc rolled his eyes.  
  
Very slowly, almost in an unnoticeable way, Cordelia started to move   
towards her purse, left on the surface of the table.  
  
Havoc shook his head. "We just want something from your friend here," he   
said, painfully digging in the back of Giles' neck with the Desert Eagle's   
mouth, "and then we'll go."  
  
"We?" Buffy asked with suspicion as she started to tense her body,   
clenching her fists and slowly separating her legs to have a good stance.  
  
"I think that 'we' means 'us', precious," a thick Australian voice said as   
two men, shouldering long guns, appeared through the door and aimed at   
them.  
  
The speaking man quickly crossed the space that separated him from Buffy   
and, before she understood what was happening, grabbed her roughly by the   
shoulder, surrounding her neck with his arm and keeping her back to his   
chest.  
  
With a grunt, Buffy struggled to get free, but before she could make good   
use of her superior strength, the Australian stranger nailed the short   
barrel of his submachine-gun against her right temple.  
  
"Come on, baby," Backlash challenged her with a lewd smile, grounding his   
crotch against her bottom, "I like it better when you move that way."  
  
Near them, Santero shouldered his HK G36K carbine and aimed alternatively   
at Willow and Cordelia. "You," he warned the brunette, noticing how she   
was moving towards the table, "stay there."  
  
Cordelia did as she was told, her hip already glued to the edge of the   
table, and raised her hands as she exchanged a meaningful look with Buffy   
and then with Willow. The red-haired apprentice of witchcraft nodded   
without words.  
  
"You," Havoc pushed Giles violently against the wall, grasping his throat   
tightly and placing the muzzle of the gun right on his nose, "where's the   
artifact?"  
  
"I don't know what you're talking about..." Giles growled through his   
stretched throat, only succeeding in making the Scandinavian mercenary   
tighten the grasp of his large and strong hand, choking the air out of his   
lungs.  
  
"Shoot him," Backlash told his partner with a smile, "and we'll ask the   
next one."  
  
"No!" Santero shouted, momentarily lowering his rifle to talk to Havoc and   
Giles. "Tell us what we want to know, or I'll let my friend have a little   
fun with the blonde," he ordered the Watcher, shaking his head towards   
Buffy and Backlash.  
  
"You bastard, let her be!!" Giles spat at him. "It's not here, OK? It's   
not here!!"  
  
"Let me go, or you'll regret it," Buffy warned his captor, struggling   
inside his grasp. "And stop feeling me up!!"  
  
"Oh, come on," Backlash smiled cruel and lustfully, practically whispering   
in the blonde Slayer's ear. "You'll like it, I promise. It's going to be   
sooo funny..."   
  
Then he did the worst possible thing he could do. He licked the edge of   
Buffy's ear and roughly grabbed one of her breasts, squeezing it through   
the young woman's shirt.  
  
Buffy just raised her right foot, and stomped at the heavy heel of his   
leather boot on the instep of the mercenary's foot; eliciting a shout of   
pain from his mouth, that she silenced by the radical method of smashing   
his face with the back of her head.  
  
Then she hit him with her bent elbow right in his throat, pushing him away   
from her and sending him against the near wall.  
  
In a second, as the other two mercenaries were still distracted by the   
Slayer's action, Cordelia sank her left hand into her Gucci purse, her   
fingers enveloping the butt of her small Glock and she fired through the   
fabric without taking aim.  
  
The 9mm bullet came out with a small explosion of pulverized leather   
fragments and hit Santero on his thigh, ripping the fabric of his pants   
and tracing a bloody line on his flesh.  
  
Finally reacting as he saw how Buffy had pushed Backlash against the wall   
and started to thoughtfully beating the living daylights out of him, and   
how Santero was falling to the floor with blood spurting out of his leg   
like a fountain, Havoc moved his gun away from Giles' face to aim at   
Cordelia. She who was taking her small 9mm out of her holed Italian purse.  
  
Nevertheless, he didn't have the opportunity of pulling the trigger as   
Giles, showing a strength that the mercenary hadn't expected from him,   
kneed him violently in the gut and then smashed both sides of his head   
with his closed fists, forcing him to loosen his grip on the Englishman's   
throat.  
  
Using the momentary advantage, and in spite of their difference in   
weights, Giles charged against him with all his strength, pushing him back   
towards the opposite wall and smashing him against it.  
  
Grabbing the wrist of his gun-hand, Giles pushed it away and punched him   
in the face, feeling the satisfactory crack of his nose breaking under the   
impact of his fist.  
  
As he fell to the floor, Santero was wondering why he hadn't decided to   
follow his hunch and stay in bed that day. He landed painfully on his butt   
and pulled the trigger of his rifle blindly, a golden shower of empty   
shells coming out of his rifle as it sent a cloud of 5.56mm projectiles in   
Cordelia's general direction.  
  
As the brunette was already flying and landing behind the protection of   
one of the bookshelves, the high-velocity bullets just ripped the table   
between them into pieces and hit the books on the shelf, shredding them   
into a falling cascade of ripped papers.  
  
Roaring with rage, the mercenary traced out an arc of bullets with his   
weapon. His index finger was glued to the trigger and he fired a long   
burst towards the petite redhead, who was standing in the middle of the   
room as if the chaos broken around her wasn't any of her concern.  
  
Willow, far from losing her nerve when she saw his intentions, just raised   
her right arm and, with her hand open, whispered a few soft words as she   
let the mystical energies flow through her body. "Protect me from any   
harm, Mother."  
  
A semi-transparent, orange and perfectly rounded disc, of about one meter   
radius, appeared from nowhere in front of her open palm like a shield. The   
fired bullets impacted against it, bouncing back inoffensively.  
  
Santero was only able to stare at the distorted image of the redhead   
through the mystic glass shield, his lower jaw hanging open with surprise.  
  
Outside, in the black Humvee, Conrad Swann heard the shots and, shaking   
his head and smiling in amusement, checked the polishing of his nails one   
last time and placed the small file in the interior pocket of his jacket.  
  
"I told you so," he whispered with resignation, as he opened the door of   
the car and got out of it.  
  
Backlash had always considered himself a tough guy, and the fact he was   
being beaten into a bloody pulp by this skinny blonde was really wounding   
his male ego; not to mention what it was doing to his inner organs.  
  
"Hey! You were right!" Buffy exclaimed cheerily, as she crossed his face   
with a hard punch. "I'm having a lot of fun with you!!"  
  
Recovering himself a little, the Australian mercenary managed to raise his   
weapon enough to block the Slayer's next blow with it and then struck her   
in the face with a round arch of the unfolded stock, making her recoil and   
gaining some breathing space.  
  
Backlash made the gun spin in his hand and pointed it at her, ready to   
open fire. But Buffy kicked the weapon away with a spinning kick, and his   
burst was lost against one of the walls, as the submachine-gun was sent   
spinning in the air and disappeared between the stacks of books.  
  
The blonde Slayer then followed with a crescent kick that he was barely   
able to dodge, but her rising foot hit the wall behind it. In her   
intention of getting at his head, Buffy ended up leaning awkwardly against   
the wall with her legs spread open, and making an effort to keep her   
equilibrium.  
  
Backlash smiled and grunted with contentment as he moved ahead, grabbing   
Buffy's still extended leg and kicking her supporting one away as he   
pushed her back and down to the floor, roughly smashing her back against   
its hard surface, falling on her with his whole weight.  
  
Meanwhile, just a couple of steps from them, Giles received a straight   
head-butt in the middle of his face and felt his spectacles shattering   
with the impact, as he backpedaled in pain.  
  
Moving with a speed that belied his massive physique, the large   
Scandinavian grabbed him by the lapels of his tweed jacket and   
effortlessly lifted his whole frame from the floor, throwing him across   
the room and to the wall as if he weighed nothing.  
  
As the British Watcher slid down the wall, shaking his head to reunite the   
dancing figures in front of his green eyes, Havoc wiped the flood of blood   
from his nose and retrieved his Desert Eagle from the floor, aiming at him   
with it.  
  
"Bastard," he growled, pointing it right at his head.  
  
"Hey!" Willow shouted across the room, calling his attention. "Don't even   
think about it!!"  
  
The red-haired witch, controlling the energy shield with one hand, pointed   
at him with the other and made a strange sign with her fingers.  
  
Immediately, a sharp pain stabbed the hand which he was holding the pistol   
with and a hissing sound and a thin cloud of steam came out of it as if   
his flesh was burning.  
  
Havoc yelled in pain and dropped the gun, which fell to the floor and   
bounced on it, the metal of the grip so hot that it was burning red. The   
tall man held his pained hand in his other one and looked at the witch,   
with hate reflected in his cold blue eyes.  
  
Willow smiled wickedly and shook her finger at him in reprobation. "Tsk,   
tsk, bad boy..." Then, she closed her free hand in a fist, and punched the   
empty air with a rising uppercut.  
  
Across the room, Havoc felt as if somebody had hit him in the chin with a   
mace and practically rose off the floor with the impact of the invisible   
strike, flying backwards across the open door and back into the store.  
  
Cordy was having her own problems; dealing with the seemingly endless   
burst of bullets that the Hispanic mercenary was firing in her direction,   
as the high-velocity projectiles perforated the shelves she was hiding   
behind as if they were made of hot butter.  
  
Searching for a way out of the deadlock, the brunette spotted Backlash's   
lost submachine-gun a couple of steps away from her, just in the uncovered   
zone between the two rows of shelves that filled the back of the room   
before the werewolf's cage.  
  
Leaning down on the floor, she took a deep breath and quickly formulated a   
plan of action inside her head. It was time to check if all the hours   
spent with Kyle in the shooting range and with Rachel on the mat, had   
really been worth the effort.  
  
As Santero stopped firing to reload his weapon, Cordelia stood up to a   
crouched position. As she needed to gain mobility, she kicked her pumps   
off her feet and reached for the sewing at the side of her tight   
miniskirt, ripping the fabric open almost to her hip.  
  
"Note to self," she muttered, "make wearing pants fashionable again."  
  
Then, at the same time, the Hispanic mercenary opened fire again and   
Cordelia came out of her refuge, launching herself forward as she   
furiously fired her semiautomatic against the man without really taking   
aim at all.  
  
As her bullets hit everywhere around him, tearing dusty chunks of plaster   
from the wall beside him and making him instinctively recoil away from   
them, Cordelia grabbed the discarded weapon off the floor and rolled over   
her shoulder to the protection offered by Willow's magical shield.  
  
When she got to her knees, the MP5K PDW firmly held in her left hand and   
its unfolded stock anchored to her hip, she fired a short burst against   
the Hispanic man, making him be the one now to jump behind a shelf to take   
cover.  
  
Conrad Swann entered the bookstore and calmly walked through it, going   
over the books stored on large shelves that reached the very ceiling on   
his way. Examining them with a critical eye and finding that, although   
most of them were nothing more than trash for the semi-professionals and   
the non-initiated, there could be found here and there some interesting   
volumes.  
  
It was a pity he wouldn't have time to give them a more thoughtful   
inspection.  
  
He reached the prone and semi-unconscious form of Havoc, still lying on   
the floor with his back leaned against one of the book-filled shelves; and   
just stepped over him without really giving him a second of attention,   
coming into the chaos of the back room.  
  
"Wow, nice..." he whispered with a smile of delight as he immediately   
spotted Willow across the room, protecting herself and the beautiful   
brunette behind a crystal shield as the taller woman and Santero exchanged   
gunfire.  
  
He felt the power emanating from her in luxuriant waves, still pure and   
almost unsullied; he thought that if he'd been a man that liked to   
manipulate, he would have loved to take her on and forge her abilities,   
giving form and shape to her still-untrained powers.  
  
Sadly for her, he wasn't.  
  
Across the room, Willow felt him too; as she kept up the shield to cover   
herself and Cordelia, she turned her head around, spotting the elegant and   
one-eyed man standing under the door's frame.  
  
Willow felt her blood turning to ice, inside her veins.  
  
The darkness she felt in him was almost overwhelming; his aura was so   
strong and intense that it seemed as real as any physical object to her,   
and its blue color, unmistakable sign of his control of magic, was so dark   
that it was almost indigo.   
  
A warlock, if she had ever seen one.  
  
Beside him, Giles got up off the floor but, before the British man could   
do anything at all, the one-eyed stranger covered his face with his right   
hand and moved his lips in silence.  
  
Willow didn't need to hear the sounds coming out from his mouth to know   
that he had just whispered 'sleep', as Giles fell down again to the floor   
in a shapeless pile of flesh, his eyes closed and his chest rising and   
falling with a regular rhythm.  
  
The man turned around to face her again and smiled, as he raised his left   
hand with the open palm facing upwards.  
  
Something seemed to scintillate a couple of inches over his open palm,   
like an electric spark; and then a blue pulse started quickly switch on   
and off in that spot, as a bright ball of sparkling blue electricity began   
to take form, appearing seemingly out of nowhere.  
  
Cursing under her breath, Willow quickly lifted her free hand and conjured   
a second shield between the man and herself, just in time to stop the   
electric ball as the one-eyed man brought his hand back and launched it   
against her like a baseball.  
  
The magic ball impacted against Willow's shield with a flaming explosion   
of blue fire, a web of cracks appearing on the surface of the shield.  
  
Raising an eyebrow, Swann spread opened his arms and, this time, two blue   
balls started to take form, one on each one of his open palms.  
  
"Cordy!" Willow called the brunette's attention, knowing that her shield   
wouldn't stand a second hit. "You gotta get outta here!"  
  
Without muttering a word, Cordelia came out of the witch's arch of   
protection and jumped to the stacks, barely dodging Santero's fire as   
Swann brought his two hands together with a slap. Making a burst of   
blinding blue light emerge from them, when the two electric balls clashed   
one against the other.  
  
Willow moved her first shield, combining it with her tattered second one   
and applying all her inner energy on them.  
  
It was just barely enough.  
  
The ray of light impacted against the shield with a silent explosion of   
light, shattering it into a thousand cracks and making the young witch   
turn her head away and close her eyes, not to get blinded by it.  
  
Willow anchored her feet to the floor and gave more and more energy to the   
breaking shield, as she felt the pulsating power of the ray pushing her   
back, ripping her only defense to pieces, slowly but without pause.  
  
She felt the heat, almost suffocating, trespassing through the shield, and   
her whole body broke out in sweat as she reached the very limits of her   
strength.  
  
Swann applied more and more power to the vibrating ray coming out of his   
hands, marveling that the youngster was still standing up against his   
attack.  
  
=Maybe,= he thought, =she's even more powerful than I thought.=  
  
But still, she was nothing compared to his long years of training. He   
began to separate his two hands, turning the single beam in two thinner   
ones and then brought his hands back, anchored his feet to the floor and   
pushed with all his strength.  
  
The twin beams seemed to shine even more brightly and thickened as a   
bright flash, whiter than the rest, ran along them from the warlock's   
hands to the witch's shield, finally destroying it when impacting against   
it.  
  
Willow felt as if she was engulfed within a ball of pure fire and,   
suddenly, she was propelled backwards against the shelves as if she had   
been hit by an sledgehammer, crashing against them and landing on the   
floor with a pained grunt.  
  
As she tried to stand up, shaking her confused head, Swann made a gesture   
with his hand, turning it into a claw as if he was grabbing something and   
yanking at it.  
  
The shelf behind Willow started to lean over her, and the young witch only   
had time to close her eyes and wonder how it was possible that this had   
happened to her twice, before the combined weight of its structure and the   
books it held fell on her small frame, like a ton of bricks.  
  
Meanwhile, Buffy felt the weight of the man with the thick moustache   
falling on her and bent her right knee, placing her feet on his chest and   
using his own momentum to roll over the floor.  
  
Turning the tables, she pinned him down and straddled his torso with her   
thighs, as she took out the stake she carried concealed from the back of   
her shirt's neckline. Raising it, she prepared to plunge the pointed piece   
of wood into the man's chest, and finish him off.  
  
And then she thought of Xander, and of the things they had said to each   
other today. Wouldn't all her words be nothing more than the purest   
hypocrisy if she killed this man, this mortal, in a burst of rage?  
  
She was an Immortal, didn't she have the upper hand in the fight no matter   
what he tried to do? Was the concept of self-defense really applicable to   
this situation? Wasn't that exactly what she had recriminated about to   
Xander?  
  
As that thought and a hundred more passed though her mind, she hesitated;   
and that vacillation, that moment of doubt, cost Buffy her life.  
  
Fast as a rattlesnake, Backlash sank his hand under his jacket, drew out a   
compact semiautomatic pistol and dug its muzzle into the blonde Slayer's   
belly, his index finger tense on the trigger.  
  
There was a moment of silence in which they looked into each other's eyes   
and then, without any warning, the mercenary fired three times.  
  
She didn't even hear the gunshots, just a flash of light and a distant   
thunder almost at the edge of her consciousness as she was still trapped   
by the intense look of the stranger's eyes.  
  
Then a piercing sensation in her belly; so sharp, so intense, that it   
seemed to engulf her whole being.  
  
Now, Buffy Summers had been hit more times than what she could remember.   
She had been punched, kicked, and slapped. She had been smashed against   
walls, crushed to the floor and thrown down staircases.  
  
She had been slashed, strangled and had even died twice, but nothing,   
nothing had prepared her for the pain that overwhelmed her body when those   
three little pieces of lead entered her stomach.  
  
It was as if inside her belly, she was on fire. Letting the stake fall to   
hold the bleeding wounds with a reflex movement, feeling her own blood   
spurting out from the holes in her flesh, Buffy fell backwards and away   
from the mercenary and his smoking gun.  
  
She stumbled to the floor as her bowels twisted inside her as if they were   
alive, and trying to scramble out of her body. She felt the urge to vomit,   
but the only taste that came to her mouth was the metallic one of her own   
blood.  
  
Breathing was suddenly impossible, and her lungs ached and burned with the   
lack of fresh air.  
  
It hurt. It hurt like Hell.  
  
With a grunt of distaste and still lying on the floor, Backlash took his   
right foot from under Buffy's trembling body; and, placing it on her   
heaving chest, pushed the young woman away from him, shoving her away as   
if she was nothing but garbage.  
  
"What a waste," he growled as he stood up, sending a last look to her   
squirming figure. Buffy felt something ripping inside her and, unable to   
even moan in pain, coughed two times and her lips sprayed a thin mist of   
blood everywhere down her chin.  
  
Everything turned dark around her, and cold, and silent.  
  
Cordelia wasn't in any less compromised of a situation than her two   
friends, as her jump away from Willow's cover had left her literally at   
Santero's feet, lying on her back with her head between his feet.  
  
In a whisper, both of them moved their guns to point them at each other   
and pulled the triggers at the same time, the brunette pointing upwards   
with the stolen submachine-gun as the Hispanic mercenary aimed down at her   
with his assault carbine.  
  
Click. Click.  
  
Both of them looked at each other in surprise and wonder as the firing   
pins of their respective weapons hit the void on an empty chamber and, for   
a second, neither of them moved.  
  
Then, Santero spun his rifle around in a whisper and tried smash the young   
woman's head with its butt. Cordelia craned her neck to one side and the   
stock of the rifle passed at barely one inch from her brunette head,   
hitting the wooden floor instead.  
  
Immediately, she raised her leg like a stinger and kicked him in the face,   
pushing him back against the wall, and quickly rolled up to her knees and   
away from his reach.  
  
"Bitch," he growled, tracing a low arching kick towards her.  
  
Cordelia blocked it with her empty weapon and then raised it between his   
legs, striking the mercenary directly on his crotch, making him double up   
in pain.  
  
"You know? I'm beginning to get tired of being called that," she told him   
as he smashed the hard submachine-gun once more against his face.  
  
As he slid down the wall, holding his bleeding nose in an state of   
semi-consciousness, Cordelia broke away from him and, taking cover behind   
one of the few shelves still standing, took a careful look around herself.   
And found that the scene was far from what she could call a nice one.  
  
Buffy was quiet and silently lying on the floor in a pool of her own   
blood, as a horrible large red spot seemed to grow on her white blouse   
without stop. She looked dead.  
  
And although she knew that her Immortal abilities would eventually bring   
her out of it, the brunette felt a pang of pain in her chest at seeing her   
like that.  
  
Willow was trapped behind a fallen shelf, a thin line of blood running   
down her forehead from her hairline. But as she was already moving, trying   
to get out of the imprisoning furniture, she didn't think she'd be in   
immediate danger.  
  
Her attention was then captured by the action on the other side of the   
room, as she saw how the large blonde man entered shaking his head and,   
after exchanging a few words with the one-eyed warlock, grabbed Giles'   
slumped form off the floor.  
  
Throwing him over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes, they started to   
take him out of the room. "Santero?" the man with the moustache and the   
goatee called out loud. "Where are ya, mate?"  
  
"Shit," she practically growled, retreating to momentary safety behind the   
shelf and checking her stolen gun. To her relief she found that it had a   
spare magazine joined to the first one with a strip of adhesive tape, and   
she lost no time in putting it into place and loading a fresh round into   
the chamber.  
  
Then, steeling herself, she came out of her refuge in a flash, her bare   
feet running over the wooden floor as fast as she could.  
  
Holding the gun in her right hand, Cordelia leaned down to grab a stool on   
her way and, as she aimed at Swann with the Heckler und Koch, swung the   
seat and hit Backlash with it on his face, sending the mercenary spinning   
in the air.  
  
"That's for Buffy, you motherfucker!!" she yelled to the falling man as   
she pulled the trigger of the automatic gun, sending a burning wave of 9mm   
bullets towards the warlock.  
  
Swann reacted just in time to generate a new energy shield that stopped   
Cordelia's gunfire, the lead projectiles bouncing on the mystic crystal   
surface inoffensively.  
  
Spitting out broken teeth and blood, Backlash rolled on the floor,   
retrieving Havoc's fallen Desert Eagle and raising it and his own Glock   
19C pistol.  
  
The Australian mercenary aimed at the brunette and opened fire with both   
guns at the same time, as Cordelia sank once more down to the floor,   
letting the bullets pass over her and impact against the opposed wall.  
  
"Bitch!!" he shouted.  
  
With an expression of deep annoyance, Cordelia swung the stool once more,   
this time smashing it on top of the mercenary's head with so much force   
that she shattered it with the impact.  
  
"Do I have to do everything?" Swann whispered with resignation, forming a   
new ball in his hand.  
  
Seeing this out of the corner of her eye, Cordelia stood up and, after   
kicking Backlash's prone form in the gut once more just in case, started   
to run away from the warlock. Heading to the only window in the whole   
room, throwing the broken remains of the stool against its closed venetian   
blinds.  
  
The electric ball flew from Swann's hand, and exploded in the middle of   
the room like a grenade. As the young brunette jumped to the window, the   
shock wave of the explosion pushed her slender frame and made her crash   
against the already shattered and semi-fallen venetian blinds within a   
flash of light.  
  
Covering her head with her arms to protect her face from the sharp glass,   
Cordelia fell outside the building, painfully landing on the hard concrete   
of the back alley behind the store with a grunt of pain.  
  
Inside the backroom, Backlash stood up to his unstable feet and,   
staggering towards the broken window, fired blindly the two guns in his   
hands through the hole until the clips of both weapons were completely   
empty.  
  
"Take this, you whore!!" he shouted as he leaned his head out the window,   
spitting a mix of saliva and blood from his broken lips.  
  
The Australian mercenary couldn't help but feel stupid when his spittle   
hit the empty and cold concrete of the ground. He looked at one side and   
the other, but was unable to find the brunette.  
  
"Where the hell has she gone?" he asked out loud, not getting any response   
from the darkened alley.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Oz wasn't happy.  
  
Far from it. As he walked along with his hands deeply hidden inside the   
pockets of his faded jeans, his head hanging low and his blue eyes lost in   
the void, kicking now and then the little stones and empty cans he found   
in his way, he seemed the epitome of sadness.  
  
The expression on his face was one that couldn't only come from a broken   
heart. Looking straight at him, one would have to have a heart of stone   
not to feel the necessity of crying.  
  
And, as always, it had nothing to do with how he really felt inside.  
  
He was angry. No, more than that, he was furious. He wanted to shout, he   
wanted to scream, he wanted to hit something, preferably the face of a   
certain peroxide-blonde vampire.  
  
Something was growling inside him, growling to him; making him want to   
growl too, to bare his long teeth and go hunting his prey.  
  
The beast within him wanted blood and payback, and the young musician was   
having to use all his strength to keep it under control, as he had done   
his whole life.  
  
It had nothing to do with his inner wolf; that creature knew only of   
primal impulses, of the moon and the night. The wolf knew about feeding   
and coupling, of controlling and keeping his territory and his mate.  
  
But it didn't know jealousy. It didn't know hate. No, those impulses,   
those feelings were exclusive to human beings.  
  
Stopping his pointless wandering, that had started that same morning when   
he had stormed off from the bookstore, he took a look at his own   
reflection in the display window of a clothing shop.  
  
He shook his head in amusement, unable to hold back a smile when he saw   
his hair, now dyed a deep blue color.  
  
Well, when angry he changed the color of his hair, it always helped him to   
look at things from another point of view; as if the outside change turned   
him into a different person. Other people got drunk, or hit their wives,   
or cheated on them...  
  
His father had done all three things before abandoning both his wife and   
son, when he was only five years old. And he had promised himself he   
wouldn't ever do anything like that to anybody. Never.  
  
He would always stay cool, he wouldn't lose control, no matter what. He   
would never allow the beast to come out.  
  
But sometimes, it was just so hard...  
  
He sighed and shook his head, passing a hand through his spiked-out blue   
hair. At twenty-two years old, he was starting to feel himself too old for   
that kind of thing; as he resumed his errant walk, he started to wonder if   
that wasn't his problem. If he was getting old too young, so to speak.  
  
Did he have real reasons to get mad at Willow? After all, as she had   
pointed out, she hadn't really done anything, she hadn't even kissed   
Spike.  
  
But no, he couldn't lie to himself.  
  
Even when the easy way out was to blame her and the bleached-hair vampire   
(and a part of him still wanted to do so, and use his long and sharp claws   
to rip his chiseled head off), the truth was that he wasn't mad because   
there was a certain attraction between them.  
  
That was just human nature, and he himself wasn't free of its effect. He   
was human too and more than once had looked at Buffy or Cordelia, to name   
two examples, and admired their beauty with what could only be considered   
deep male appreciation.  
  
The problem was that he had never felt the necessity to act on those   
impulses and, even if it had only been for a short moment, Willow had.  
  
And, at least to him, that meant that there was something wrong with their   
relationship; that it wasn't working as well as it should, there was   
something that the red-haired apprentice of witchcraft was missing.  
  
Oz had an idea of what it was, but he wasn't so sure of what he could do   
to make it right.  
  
A lonely dark cloud crossed the otherwise clear sky, covering the sun for   
a second. And, as he was only wearing a thin T-shirt over his thin torso,   
the young werewolf was suddenly chilled to the bone. He felt the   
goosebumps rising all over his skin, at the momentary descent of the   
temperature.  
  
As if he had taken an unexpected cold shower, Oz felt his head a little   
more clear and was suddenly conscious of his surroundings and his state.  
  
He had been walking for hours, he hadn't eaten anything since the night   
before and the only rest he'd had was when he went to the hair-stylist to   
get his hair dyed. He was tired, hungry and seriously cranky.  
  
And he was missing Willow. Missing her so much that it hurt.  
  
He heard the rumble of thunder, and shook his head. =Great, now to top it   
all off, it's going to rain.=  
  
Fortunately, he must've been walking in circles the whole time and now he   
was already on the street of Giles' bookstore, so he shrugged and   
quickened his pace along the sidewalk in the direction of the 'The   
Library'.  
  
A new peal of thunder roared and Oz raised his cool blue eyes to the sky,   
getting momentary blinded when the storm cloud passed away and the light   
of the sun bathed him again. It wasn't going to rain.  
  
And that wasn't thunder.  
  
"What the hell..." Oz growled, stopping dead in his tracks. He was still a   
couple of blocks away from the store but, as his heartbeat sped up inside   
his chest, the young werewolf instinctively got closer to the wall.  
  
He lowered his eyes to the ground and tilted his head to one side, as if   
he was carefully listening to something only he was able to hear.  
  
And he was listening. And smelling. And letting a thousand bits of   
information come to his amazingly heightened senses. He heard ragged   
breaths, and grunts, and shouts. He smelled sweat and burnt gunpowder...   
and blood.  
  
When his head jerked up as if he had been hit by lightning, Oz's blue eyes   
had turned a deep golden color, his irises were rounded by twin black   
rings, and he lifted his upper lip. Baring his teeth, the impressive set   
of sharp canines grew inside his mouth.  
  
With his heart racing inside his chest, the young werewolf started to run   
towards the store's main door with long and smooth steps, feeling his own   
body still changing as he got closer and closer to his point of   
destination.  
  
He was barely ten yards from the door, about to pass by the entrance to   
the last alley when a hand emerged from around the corner. And, before he   
knew what was going on, it grabbed him by the collar of his T-shirt and   
yanked at it, trying to drag him into the darkened and narrow passage.  
  
Oz struggled against his unseen opponent, ripping his clothing in the   
process, and slapped his attacker's hand away, slashing the air with is   
enlarged claws.  
  
With his growl stifling the grunt of pain coming from the dark figure who   
hit the wall behind, Oz jumped onto his feet with a smooth leap, grabbing   
the neck and bringing him down to the ground, his other hand up and ready   
to strike.  
  
But then he noticed that the attacker's neck was slender and soft like   
silk under his hand, and that she smelled of French perfume and a personal   
scent he knew too well.  
  
Shit, he was pinning Cordelia to the ground.  
  
"Uh, Cordy?" he asked with puzzlement. "Is that you?"  
  
"No, I'm Little Red Riding Hood, do you want to get up off of me?" she   
grunted, squirming under his pinning weight. The young werewolf arched his   
brow in surprise and finally got up from the ground, grabbing the   
brunette's slender hand to help her to her feet.  
  
Cordelia looked at him sideways, and patted the dust away from her less   
than untarnished clothes. "Well, you sure know how to treat a lady."  
  
Oz bit his tongue not to lash out at her, but then he noticed the state of   
her clothes, torn and dirty, the fact that she was barefoot and, above   
all, that she was carrying a machine-gun under her arm.  
  
The young werewolf blinked, and shook his head. "What happened to you? And   
why'd you grab me like that?"  
  
Cordelia opened her mouth to answer, but then she seemed to see something   
over his shoulder and grabbed him by the torn remains of his T-shirt,   
pushing him into the darkened interior of the alley and against the wall.   
Leaning against it herself, the brunette young woman crouched down and   
took a careful look outside and around the corner.  
  
"Cordy! What's all this about?" Oz whispered with a frown of confusion,   
leaning over her almost-knelt-down body to see what she was looking at.  
  
Coming out though the door of Giles' store, a group of strangers started   
to cross the street – one of them, who looked Hispanic, was limping   
noticeably. They were dressed in dark clothes, except one of them who was   
wearing an elegant and expensive suit and a leather patch over one of his   
eyes.  
  
That didn't get Oz's attention; what surprised him was that at least three   
of the four men were carrying weapons, that they smelled of blood and   
cordite and that one of them, the taller one, was carrying Giles'   
motionless form over his shoulder. "Who are those people? Where are they   
taking Giles?"  
  
"Ssshh! Shut up before they hear you," Cordelia hushed him, looking at the   
usually so quiet young werewolf's face with incredulity. "What's going on   
with you today? Did you eat cow's tongue for breakfast or something?"  
  
Oz frowned, and looked impatiently at her. He needed to know. "Alright,   
alright... I don't know who they are, they came into the store armed to   
the teeth, searching for something – then one of them touched Buffy in a   
rather... indecorous way and then..."  
  
"...all hell broke loose," Oz finished for her.  
  
"Exactly," the brunette nodded, rolling her eyes and then looking at him   
with a serious expression on her beautiful face. "I managed to escape and   
hid in a dumpster... again," Cordelia sighed tiredly.  
  
"I don't know where they're taking Giles, but I intend to find out. I'm   
gonna follow them, where's your van?" She blinked repeatedly, and took a   
second look at him. "And what happened to your hair?"  
  
Searching inside his pockets, Oz took out the keys of his Volkswagen and   
pointed across the street, where his van was parked a couple of spots   
behind the black Humvee into which the strangers were getting into.   
"Where's Buffy?"  
  
Then, as if he had forgotten all about her, his heart did a painful   
flip-flop inside his chest. "And Willow?"  
  
"I think they shot Buffy dead," Cordelia said matter-of-factly, arching   
her brow when she noticed her friend's horrified expression. "She'll come   
back to life – Immortality, remember?"  
  
"And Willow?" he insisted.  
  
This time, Cordelia avoided his look. "She's alright... more or less. They   
knocked her out," she explained with a tired and sad look, "but it didn't   
look really serious."  
  
Oz stood up immediately and tried to get out of the alley to run towards   
the store, but Cordelia quickly followed his movement and grabbed him by   
the shoulder, keeping him back in the safety of their hideout.  
  
They looked at each other for a short second without uttering a word and   
Cordelia sighed, shaking her head. "Go in by the window at the back, don't   
let them see you," she whispered to him with a small smile of   
understanding.  
  
The young werewolf returned her smile and started to run to the back of   
the alley in an unnatural silence, stopping when he had taken only a   
couple of steps and turning around.  
  
"Hey," he called the brunette with a whisper, throwing the keys of the van   
to her when she turned around. Cordelia grabbed them from the air and   
nodded softly. "Be careful."  
  
When she looked back at the other side of the street, the black Humvee was   
starting its engine and coming out of its parking spot, quickly gaining   
speed as it advanced along the street and away from the crime scene with a   
roar of its powerful mechanical bowels.  
  
"This was funnier when it was Bruce Willis doing it," Cordelia groaned,   
before starting to run towards Oz's van.  
  
At her back, the young werewolf ran like mad to the back of the alley and   
jumped through the small window of the back room, leaping through it in   
his mid-turned state and landing smoothly in the interior of the room as   
he scanned the scene with a warning growl.  
  
The scene that received him was desolate, to say the least. The upturned   
and broken furniture, the fallen shelves, the bullet-holes in the walls,   
the pungent smell of burnt cordite... and, above all, Buffy's body lying   
on the floor, in the middle of a large pool formed by her own blood.  
  
"Oh, my God..." Choking on his own saliva and feeling his blood freezing   
inside his veins, Oz knelt down beside his friend. Gently making her head   
lie on his lap and smoothing her blonde hair out of her face, he carefully   
cleaned her skin of the tiny dots of red blood matting it.  
  
He checked her pulse and her breathing. Nothing.  
  
She was dead.  
  
Somehow, the fact that she would soon be alive and well was too unreal and   
strange, too distant to alleviate the pain he felt seeing her like that.  
  
But then, a soft and pained moan came to his sharp ears and he felt his   
own heart jumping to his mouth. Raising his golden eyes, he saw Willow's   
trembling frame as the young redhead tried to come out from the   
imprisonment of the fallen shelf.  
  
"Willow!!" he shouted, gaining her attention.  
  
"Oz?" she called him back weakly.  
  
After carefully leaving Buffy's quiet form resting on the floor, Oz   
crossed the space towards Willow in two long and fast steps; grabbing the   
fallen shelf with his claws, he effortlessly lifted it from the redhead's   
body with his supernatural strength.  
  
The young werewolf practically threw the piece of furniture away, making   
it crash against another group of shelves and land noisily on the floor in   
a pile of broken wood and scattered books.  
  
Losing no time, Oz knelt down beside his girlfriend and took her in his   
arms, nervously checking her body to see if she was harmed in any way.   
"Oz?" she called him again.  
  
"Yeah, baby, it's me," he told her softly, but so nervously that he   
stumbled with the words as he took the errant locks of her auburn hair   
away from her beautiful face. "I'm here, I'm with you, I'm not going to   
let you go..."  
  
Willow shook her head softly and grimaced in pain, instantly regretting   
it. "Ouch! Someone get the number plate of that truck?"  
  
He chuckled on her behalf, holding her in his arms and rocking her   
tenderly. Then, the redhead seemed to come to her senses and looked   
around, spotting the dead Slayer. "Buffy!!"  
  
"Sshh," Oz tried to calm her, keeping her against his chest when she   
weakly tried to get out of his embrace. "You can't do anything for her   
right now, Will; she'll get well in her own time. That's the good part of   
being Immortal, remember?"  
  
"B-but... what if Xander was wrong? What if she...? What if...?" her words   
trailed off as she fought with them, looking at her boyfriend with   
wide-open and scared sea-green eyes.  
  
"Hey, you don't believe that," he told her softly as he kept on rocking   
her, cleaning her face of blood and dirt, "everything is gonna be alright,   
OK? I promise."  
  
The young redhead seemed to finally calm down a little, and allowed Oz to   
fully take her into his arms for a few seconds until she seemed to   
remember something and did a double-take without getting out of his   
embrace.  
  
"Where are Giles and Cordelia? And those guys? The ones with the guns and   
the warlock?" She gave him a weird look. "And what've you done with your   
hair?"  
  
"They took Giles," Oz informed her succinctly, "Cordelia is following   
them, and I dyed it."  
  
"And you let her go alone?" Willow asked with incredulity.  
  
"Well, she seemed very capable..." the young werewolf frowned. "And I was   
worried about you..."  
  
Willow got out of his embrace and laboriously got up from the floor,   
leaning against the broken and bullet-riddled remains of the table. "You   
don't have to be, I'm alright," she said tensely.  
  
"Really?" he said with little conviction. "Look at yourself, baby, you   
need to go to a hospital."  
  
"I've said I'm alright," she insisted stubbornly as she took a slow look   
at the remains of the battle. "It's Giles and Cordelia who need help right   
now, not me. Even though it's like she's turned into a new version of   
Sarah Connor, we can't let her follow them alone. Those people are   
dangerous, Oz."  
  
"Yeah, you don't need to convince me of that," he whispered, taking a look   
around.  
  
The apprentice of Wicca came closer to him, leaning her hands on his   
shoulders. "You have to go with her, Oz. You gotta go now."  
  
Seeing how she was still leaning for support on the upturned table, the   
young werewolf shook his head. "I won't leave you alone. And I still have   
to call Xander and the guys, they'll help Cordy, OK? I'll call them and   
then I'll take you to the hospital."  
  
"We don't have time for that!!" she told him. "And we're wasting it with   
this stupid discussion!"  
  
"But, Willow-"  
  
"No! Go with her now, Oz, and I'll make that call."  
  
The young werewolf looked at her serious and determined expression for a   
few seconds of silence, before letting out a soft sigh. "Are you sure that   
you're alright?" he asked gently.  
  
At her soft nod of response, Oz just kissed her on the forehead lovingly   
and turned around towards the door.  
  
"Oz," she called to him at the last second, "be careful." He just sent a   
small smile to her, and went out of the room with a fast jog.  
  
As his figure finally disappeared through the door, the young apprentice   
of witchcraft smiled softly. "I love you," she managed to whisper, before   
a painful cough shook her whole body.  
  
Willow wiped the dots of saliva that came to her lips and, when she looked   
at her fingers, found that they were spotted with blood.  
  
"Well," she whispered as she began to weakly move to the telephone, "maybe   
I'm not exactly alright."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
As he walked out of the store after leaving Willow, Oz noticed almost by   
chance something fallen on the floor, a small piece of folded paper. It   
caught his attention, because Giles was completely anal-retentive about   
the order of his things in the store.  
  
Just the mere thought of the British man leaving this on the floor clashed   
against that. So, as he passed it by, the young werewolf retrieved it and,   
without decreasing his fast pace, took a look at it.  
  
"Shit," was all he could whisper when he read the four words written on it   
and, as he felt his heart quickening even more inside his chest, he did   
the same and started to openly run out of the store.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
"Come on, come on..."  
  
The engine of the van coughed, as the brunette young woman turned the key   
inside the ignition for the tenth time.  
  
As it had done on the previous nine occasions, it refused to start.   
Raising her hazel eyes from the doubtful needles of the dashboard,   
Cordelia spotted the black Humvee turning the corner at the end of the   
street and disappearing from sight.  
  
"Damn it!" she yelled, punching the steering wheel with rage and then   
quickly opening the driver's door to get out. Frowning, she looked around   
trying to find a solution and, when she saw a car getting close to her,   
she made a quick decision.  
  
Walking to the middle of the road and hiding the compact submachine-gun   
behind her back, Cordelia put her best smile on her lips and rose her left   
arm to halt the upcoming car, a brand-new Honda Accord. She prayed for the   
driver to be a man.  
  
She was lucky and the man behind the Honda's wheel jammed on the brakes,   
the nose of the car stopping barely a few inches from Cordelia's knees.  
  
Still smiling, she walked around the car to the driver's window with an   
exaggerated swagger of her hips and bowed beside it, generously displaying   
her incredible cleavage.  
  
The driver rolled down the window, and gave her a lecherous smile. "Well,   
hello gorgeous..."  
  
As she didn't have any time to lose, Cordelia decided to cut to the chase   
and, still offering him her most seductive smile, took the MP5K PDW from   
her back and shoved it through the open window, leaning the muzzle between   
his nose and cheek. "Hello handsome, could you be a nice boy and lend me   
your car for a while?"  
  
Opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, the man looked at   
the gun. Then at her. Then at the gun. And then at her once more. "Hmmm,   
eh... well, I-uh-I mean, I..."  
  
Cordelia was starting to get impatient when the door of the store across   
the street burst open and a mid-turned Oz came out of it, crossing the   
space to the car with a few long and fast strides.  
  
Without uttering a word, he took a look at the scene and punched the   
passenger's window, shattering it into a thousand fragments of glass.   
Digging his claws on the plastic and metal of the door, he ripped it off   
its hinges, throwing it aside afterwards.   
  
Still silent, the young werewolf got into the Honda, sat down on the   
passenger's seat and gave the driver a mean look with his blazing golden   
eyes. "The lady asked you to get out of the car," he told the man,   
displaying his sharp canines noticeably when he spoke.  
  
"Now," he growled menacingly, "get out."  
  
The man gasped, fumbled with his seat-belt and got out of the car, almost   
hitting Cordelia with the door in his haste to do it. The young brunette   
looked at his back as the man ran away down the road as if he had the   
Devil himself on his tail, and shook her head in wonder, sitting behind   
the steering wheel.  
  
"What's up with you?" she asked the young werewolf, restarting the engine.  
  
Oz just gave her a sideways look, and crossed his hairy arms over his   
chest. "I'm having a bad day."  
  
Cordelia practically snorted, and shook her head once more. "Yeah, well,   
tell me about it."  
  
Then, biting her lower lip with determination, she stepped on the gas and   
the Honda blasted forward in a cloud of burnt rubber.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Inside the store, Willow threw away the useless phone after checking that   
it wasn't connected and returned to the back room, practically leaning on   
the wall and on each available surface of furniture not to fall to the   
ground. Obviously, she wasn't all right at all.  
  
Stumbling on her weak feet, Willow sent a look at Buffy's still form and   
knelt down on the floor, leaning on her hands not to fall.  
  
Breathing was painful, and she felt her lungs burning with each intake of   
air she took; she also felt lightheaded, and was starting to see double.  
  
Shaking her head, trying to focus her sight, she crawled on her hands and   
knees to the broken table and searched around it until she found   
Cordelia's ruined purse.  
  
"I hope she didn't fire through it," she whispered as she rummaged inside   
it and took her cell phone out.  
  
Luckily, it seemed intact and she almost blindly dialed the warehouse's   
number. By this stage, she was practically leaning against the upturned   
table and thinking required an effort she wasn't sure she had the strength   
for. This way, when she dialed Spike's private extension, she didn't even   
notice it.  
  
"Spike's corner o' debauchery 'ere," the bleached-hair vampire's voice   
came with a cheerful grunt, "what can I do for ya, luv? Or more   
accurately, what can I do to ya?"  
  
The redhead tried to say something to him, but the only thing that came   
out of her lips was a pained and tired moan. "Y'know? It's funny, mate,   
'cause it's actually me who used to make this kinda call..."  
  
"Spike?" she finally managed to say.  
  
"Willow?" his voice came out of the phone, with a high-pitched and nervous   
tone. "Is that you, Red?"  
  
"Spike?" she said again, unable to think of any more words. Her head was   
more than light-headed, it was practically floating out in space. And it   
was beginning to get cold – although that was good, because her body   
didn't feel so painful anymore.  
  
The truth was, she didn't feel anything at all but the dryness of her   
mouth and the fire in her lungs. "People with guns... shot Buffy... took   
Giles... Cordy and Oz..."  
  
The phone slipped away from her hands and Willow slid down the table and   
to the floor, heavily coughing and feeling the taste of blood on her lips.   
No, she wasn't alright, not at all...   
  
The last thing she heard before everything turned dark around her, was   
Spike's voice calling her name as if in a dream.  
  
"Willow?!?" his voice came, strained with worry and tension. "Willow, are   
ya there?!? Willow?!? Willow?!?!?"  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Winter days are painfully short and, in that old and lonely mansion at the   
top of the cliffs, they were also cold and mercilessly slow, like the   
agony of a dying sick man.  
  
The darkness of the night began to softly approach from the horizon like a   
blanket of black velvet, and the sun began to sink down into the vast and   
bottomless ocean in a silence that was almost unnatural.  
  
It was then that the old man in the wheelchair rolled himself along the   
empty corridors and dusty hallways, his weak, almost sundered arms   
spinning the wheels painfully slowly.  
  
Every meter was a torment, every turn of the wheels was another nail in   
his coffin. But, at the same time, every meter gained was a victory   
against death, every turn he gave to the wheels was a triumph in itself.  
  
It cost him more than energy, and more than time. But when he finally came   
into the room, heaving and panting, sounding like a broken church organ   
and with his yellowed skin covered by cold sweat, stopping in front of the   
beautiful woman's bust, he felt that it had really been worth the effort.  
  
So much time had passed, so many years, and he still loved her. Or, more   
precisely, he still wanted her as one wants a worthy treasure, as one   
desires an object of immeasurable price.  
  
She had been his wife once, and now all he had of her was that image of   
white marble, looking down at him with hard and merciless cold eyes of   
stone.  
  
Almost everything.  
  
"Rebecca..." he whispered brokenly, panting with the effort and nervously   
turning the silver ring around the finger of his left hand. "It's   
starting... everything is starting... oh, how I wish you were here to see   
it all..."  
  
Looking down at the ring, he felt his throat going dry. The cold metal   
seemed to glow for a short instant, and the rivulets of gold shone all   
along its surface as if they were beating veins, full of golden blood.  
  
It grew heavier and colder on his finger and when he raised his hand again   
to the statue, he could have sworn that the expression on her cold stone   
face had changed.  
  
Just a small frown here, just a little wrinkle there and it wasn't hard   
and merciless anymore. It was angry and furious. It was almost full of   
hate towards him.  
  
Broderick Egoyan just smiled and rolled his wheelchair around, turning his   
back to her and moving nearer to the closest window. Carefully, he rolled   
up the heavy blinds covering it and looked outside at the endless Pacific   
ocean, and the dying sun falling into it, bathing everything with flames   
of dark fire.  
  
"It's starting..." he whispered again, and this time he couldn't help but   
smile.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
  
To be continued... 


	4. Part 4 of 10

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book III, part 4 of 10  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general   
corrections by Theo  
  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow   
kissing and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial,   
Land of 'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline   
to accommodate it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy'   
happened a lot later than it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are   
only tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of   
Highlander-style immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole   
'Immortals have no parents and are found in a little basket' is a... um,   
the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada', so let's just ignore it, OK?  
  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit,   
merely for the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander,   
Willow, Oz, Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle   
Gorch, Quentin Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property   
of Joss Whedon, Warner Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of   
Highlander and the characters mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda   
Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the Society of Watchers) are the   
property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the   
World Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are   
copyright of their respective rights owners.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language,   
so any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my   
wonderful beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please   
be kind with me. I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child,   
believe me.  
  
SUMMARY: Broderick Egoyan has carefully chosen the right moment to strike,   
when friends are against friends and all trust seems about to vanish   
between Slayerettes and Archangels. It's right when you think things   
couldn't get worse that they get worse.  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen,   
because it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book III  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as The Sergeant  
Benjamin Bratt as Santero  
Trevor Goddar as Backlash  
Dolph Lundgren as Havoc  
Rob Rowland as Chopper  
Jake Busey as Sniper  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Matthew Ferguson as Chip  
  
Bill Paxton as Major Stephen Marsden, USAF  
Tom Sizemore as Master Sergeant Ricky Perkins, USAF  
John Leguizamo as Airman First Class Charlie Martinelli, USAF  
Mario Lopez as Airman First Class Alonso 'Bear' Vasquez, USAF  
Patrick Labyorteaux as Sergeant Edwin Walters, USAF  
  
Richard Dean Anderson as Col. Jack O'Neill, USAF  
Michael Shanks as Dr. Daniel Jackson  
Amanda Tapping as Maj. Samantha Carter, USAF  
Christopher Judge as Teal'c  
Don S. Davis as Gen. George Hammond, USAF  
Teryl Rothery as Dr. Janet Fraiser  
Tom McBeath as Col. Harry Mayborne, USAF  
Peter Deluise as Airman Shepard, USAF  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
and  
  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Incise: P3X254, 1308 hours Zulu  
  
  
  
"Then I suppose now is the time for me to say something profound...   
nothing comes to mind. Let's do it."  
  
Col. Jonathan 'Jack' O'Neill  
  
  
  
The landscape was so arid - that the mere vision of the wide, endless   
desert plains, was enough to make any normal man think twice about the   
wisdom of venturing into them.  
  
The light of the twin red suns in the sky above was surprisingly weak, as   
the two stars were further from the surface of the planet than what they   
should be, to give that empty rock even a minimal chance to house any sign   
of life.  
  
But, still, the crimson shine was enough to bathe the sandy and scarred   
planet into an eternal twilight, that was at the same time beautiful and   
suffocating.  
  
No matter where he looked, even with the aid of his powerful hi-tech   
binoculars, all that Major Stephen Marsden was able to see was an endless   
ocean of red sand dunes surrounding them to the very limits of the   
horizon.  
  
And, not for the first time since that mission had started, the tall   
military man wondered who'd had the bright idea of sending him and the   
rest of his team to a place so barren, that not even the most basic   
bacteria would stand a chance of survival.  
  
Sighing inside the protection offered by his space suit, Major Marsden   
passed a thick-gloved hand over the reflecting surface of his facial   
plate, cleaning it of the red dust that had slowly covered it.  
  
Momentarily hindering his vision he turned around, looking for the rest of   
his team, waiting from him at the end of the dune's slope. And from his   
point of view, the four members of his team camped around the two off-road   
vehicles, didn't look amused at all.  
  
Far from that, he knew that they were tired, grumpy and fed up with a   
mission no one of them had wanted to execute. But he also knew they were   
professionals and that they would carry their orders to their very ends,   
no matter what.  
  
Even when the atmosphere of the planet was toxic for any form of life   
based on carbon, the advanced filters and converters with which their   
suits were equipped allowed them to act without the limits of a lack of   
breathable air, and the trouble that would arise carrying oxygen tanks   
with them.  
  
Food and water were a completely different matter. Even when all the   
members of the SG-4 team were experts in survival, it was impossible to   
find anything edible or any trace of usable water in the middle of that   
red nothingness.  
  
So, they were limited to the food concentrates and the energizing liquid   
they could carry inside their suits - and even that stuff they were only   
able to consume with the aid of a set of plastic straws, as the idea of   
taking off their helmets was totally out of the question.  
  
In case of emergency, the suits also had recycling units for their own   
bodily fluids; but that was a measure that none of the five men of the   
team liked to even contemplate.  
  
So in the end, considering the hostile temperature, the heat and the   
effort that was required to move in an atmosphere that had half the   
gravity of Earth, all that they had was 24 hours to complete their   
assigned mission. One day, and nothing more.  
  
Major Marsden looked down at the console installed on the lower part of   
his helmet, an advanced HUD like the ones installed on the modern fighter   
planes. It offered him information about the state of his   
Kevlar-reinforced suit, the ambient conditions and practically everything   
that would be useful in a situation such as theirs.  
  
What interested the American military officer at that very moment, was the   
time. 1310 Zulu hours. Ten hours of elapsed mission time. Fourteen hours   
were remaining to finish the mission, with or without success.  
  
Carefully pushing the rubber keys of the console installed on his left   
forearm, Marsden changed the communications system so he only would be   
heard by his second in command, and not by the rest of the team.  
  
"Sergeant Perkins!" he called. "Mission status report."  
  
From the lower part of the dune on which top he was settled, one of the   
four men of the team separated away from the rest and started to climb the   
sand mound with long, gravity-less jumps until he reached the commanding   
officer's spot.  
  
His movements were clumsy, hindered not only by the unearthly temperature   
but also by his bulky space suit, the equipment and the armament he   
carried on his person.  
  
"Sir?" Senior Master Sergeant Ricky Perkins asked, as he awkwardly tried   
to cope with his ordinance M4 carbine, hanging it from the specially   
designed attachments on his suit.  
  
When he spoke, his voice came crackling and echoed by the effect of the   
radio transmission, but fluid and clear enough to be understood. "We're   
having some problems with the electronic equipment, all this damn dust   
slips through every juncture and crack in the casings. We may even have   
some troubles with the suit filters, later on."  
  
Frowning, the major directed a hard stare to his subordinate although he   
knew that the reflecting surface of their facial plates, designed to   
protect him from the harmful solar radiation, wouldn't allow the sergeant   
to notice it. "I would like to hear some good news for a change, Sergeant   
Perkins."  
  
His bulky suit annulled the younger man's shrug, but Marsden knew he was   
smiling beneath the helmet and that his clear blue eyes were sparkling   
with humor. "Do you want me to make something up, sir?"  
  
Much to his own amusement, Major Marsden also smiled. "No, Ricky, but   
thanks anyway for the offer. Any sign on the monitors?"  
  
The younger, shorter man took a piece of hardware from his utility belt   
and opened its lid, showing that it was a miniature but obviously advanced   
laptop, covered in a transparent plastic case to protect it. "This place   
is as dead as my great-grandfather, sir. Radiation levels... stable on   
red. Air and gases... on red. Nothing on the spectrometer, the motion   
detectors, the seismograph... oh, whatthehellwasthat!?!"  
  
"What?" his commanding officer asked, leaning down to look at the green   
liquid glass screen as he keyed on his console, opening the communications   
channel to the rest of the team.  
  
"A pulse," Sergeant Perkins informed him, "seismographic activity in   
quadrant... beta-nine!"  
  
"Vasquez!" the commanding officer roared, as the three men at the lower   
part of the sand dune quickly stood to attention, checking the different   
equipment they had installed on the two military 4WD buggies.  
  
Sliding down the slope of the dune, taking care of not ripping their suits   
on any sharp rock, the two military men quickly neared their subordinates.   
"I want bodies on all the approaches ASAP! Martinelli, Walters! The   
vehicles have to be operative now!"  
  
As two of the soldiers jumped behind the steering wheels of the desert   
buggies, weighted down to operate in the lower gravity of the planet, and   
started their engines, the last remaining member of the team climbed up   
the tower-like structure built in the rear of one of the buggies.  
  
On a standard vehicle of that kind, that structure would house a rotating   
observation post equipped either with anti-tank rockets, or a heavy   
.50-caliber Browning machine-gun. But, in these modified units, the   
armament had been substituted by advanced electronic equipment for   
analysis and surveillance.  
  
Airman First Class Alonso 'Bear' Vasquez secured his M249LSW on its props   
on the vehicle and quickly activated all the electronic systems, checking   
them with fast and trained eyes.  
  
"Sir! We have a signal on quadrant beta-nine, loud and clear! Parameters   
are... oh, Santa María Madre de Dios, we have blips and blinks on all the   
consoles, seismic, radio, infra-red..."  
  
"It has to be some kind of electromagnetic disturbance affecting the   
system," Airman First Class Charlie Martinelli said, with his unmistakable   
accent from Brooklyn. The major sat at his side and he started to lead the   
convoy off, rounding the sand dune and being followed at a prudent   
distance by Perkins' and Walters' buggy. "This place is a fuckin' desert."  
  
"Is that possible, sergeant?" Major Marsden asked with a frown, as he   
indicated to the driver to start directing their group to the source of   
the signal.  
  
"Martinelli should keep his spaghetti mouth shut, sir," Perkins answered.   
"The systems are OK, we've double-checked all of them and there's no   
doubt."  
  
"An earthquake, then?" Martinelli insisted stubbornly.  
  
The Master Sergeant shook his head absent-mindedly, not realizing that no   
one would notice his expression. "Nah, the pulse is too regular and   
stable. The source has to be artificial."  
  
Martinelli released a somewhat tired sigh. "I was afraid you'd say   
something like that, Sarge. Is it too late to turn around and go back   
home?"  
  
"Gentlemen," Major Marsden said, ignoring the Italian-American's   
commentary, "we are professionals, we have a mission and we're going to   
accomplish it with complete success. If any of you thinks otherwise, this   
is the moment to say so. I have no problems in leaving you here and   
allowing you to return home... on foot."  
  
An unmistakable sigh was heard again through the radio channel, followed   
by Airman First Class Martinelli's voice, full of resignation. "Well, I   
guess this is what they pay us for, after all."  
  
"And we can't let SG-1 have all the fun, can we?" Walters added with a   
snort of laughter.  
  
Major Marsden said nothing but, under his reflecting facial plate, he   
smiled.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
They traveled for two long hours, following the beeping signal on their   
monitors as they crossed the endless desert plains.  
  
Although the chatter was lively at first, fueled by the excitement of the   
moment, it soon faded away under the heat and their tiredness. And the   
realization that, wherever they were going to and whatever they would find   
there, it was almost certain that it would present some kind of danger to   
them.  
  
"There's something worrying you, Ricky?" Major Marsden asked his second in   
command, limiting once again the conversation to the two of them. "What's   
on your mind?"  
  
The USAF Master Sergeant was reluctant to speak at first, but soon he   
released a tired sigh and nodded inside the protection of his pressurized   
helmet. "I was thinking that pulse signal is too intense. We should have   
detected it before."  
  
"And?"  
  
"Well, it's like a beacon signal, something to alert somebody of   
something's location. And I think that if we didn't detect it before, that   
was because it wasn't activated."  
  
Marsden didn't like what his subordinate was implying, not at all. "All   
the reports say that this planet is uninhabited, sergeant. No sign or   
trace of life."  
  
"And that beacon? How was it activated?" Perkins sighed again and made a   
strange noise with his tongue, rolling it. "It had to detect us."  
  
The major shrugged awkwardly, denying importance to the matter. "Probably   
it's some kind of automatic autonomous system. I don't think there's   
anything to worry about."  
  
"Yeah, well sir, if you don't mind I'd prefer to keep a bullet in the   
chamber for the rest of the mission, so to speak."  
  
Marsden knew that the sergeant was speaking both figuratively and   
literally at the same time. "I didn't say we wouldn't take the correct   
precautions, sergeant. But I'm sure everything will be OK."  
  
When it came through his helmet's speakers, Perkins' voice carried a   
distinctive snort of sarcastic laughter. "From your mouth to God's ears,   
sir."  
  
Ten minutes later, the outcroppings were visible for the first time,   
rising up from the sandy red surface like mythological giants. To the very   
limits of the darkened sky and, although the radar of the vehicles had   
detected the rocky formation minutes ago, none of the men of the military   
unit were ready for their real immensity.  
  
"We should have detected them before too," Perkins informed his superior.   
"They're too big for the instruments to ignore them."  
  
The mass of tableland extended from one side of the horizon to the other,   
their limits disappearing from sight in the distance. And its height was   
so immense that soon, as the two buggies got closer to it, the soldiers   
traveling on them lost the sight of its upper edge, lost between the   
clouds and the dim darkness of the planet's eternal twilight.  
  
But the most amazing thing, was that the tableau rose abruptly from the   
desert - as if somebody, a nameless ancient god, had ripped it from its   
natural bed and, making it cross the whole world, let it fall in the   
middle of that arid desert.  
  
Around it, there was no other sign of rocky formations; no mountains,   
hills, nothing but endless sand dunes and then the ragged red cliffs,   
reaching to the sky.  
  
"Maybe they were hidden by a sandstorm," Vasquez postulated. "Or maybe   
there's something in the mineral composition of the formation affecting   
the instruments."  
  
"Whatever it was, there's nothing we can do about it," Major Marsden told   
them, as he checked the hour on his suit's HUD. They barely had time to   
find whatever it was, and return to the Stargate. "The radar shows that   
our objective is in the middle of that formation, any suggestions about   
how we can get to it on time?"  
  
"I guess climbing that motherfucker of a mountain is out of the question,"   
Martinelli said.  
  
"We'd need a week for that alone, spaghetti," Vasquez told him with a   
snort, "and it's a tableau, not a mountain."  
  
"Whatever," the New Yorker said with a shrug.  
  
"Sir, the radar shows that there's a canyon leading directly to the source   
of the beacon signal. It's too narrow to use the ARV's," Vasquez informed   
the major, meaning the All-Road Vehicles, "but even on foot I think we'll   
only need an hour to reach it."  
  
"Too in the nick of time, Bear," Perkins commented. "We'll have to enlarge   
the mission time one hour."  
  
"Then we'll tighten out belts, sergeant, and we'll do the trip back home   
without pit stops. Walters, Martinelli, drive us to the entrance of the   
canyon. We'll leave the vehicles there and continue the mission," Marsden   
ordered, being immediately obeyed by his men.  
  
After reaching the entrance of the canyon and parking the vehicles by   
them, they covered the buggies with twin rubber blankets to protect their   
instruments and mechanisms as much as possible from the hostile   
temperature. Then the five soldiers ventured into the narrow crack,   
advancing in single-file with Martinelli leading the group and Vasquez   
bring up the rear.  
  
"I don't understand how it is that I'm always the first one," the   
Italian-American protested, as usual. "I mean, can't Bear take point? He   
would cover us better with all that fat! Or why not Walters? Why does it   
have to be me?"  
  
"You go first because if we find some hostile activity, you're so ugly   
that you'll frighten them, OK?" Perkins told him harshly. "And now keep   
your mouth shut, Martinelli, I won't repeat it. And try not to make any   
noise of brisk movement - if we provoke a cave-in, I have no idea of how   
we'll manage to get out of here."  
  
"You're too grumpy today, Sarge," Martinelli insisted, his voice full of   
merriment. "You should try to have a better state of mind, be a little   
more optimistic! I mean, what's not to like with the beautiful,   
breathtaking scenery?"  
  
Around them, the canyon was oppressively narrow - the knife-edge walls of   
rough red rock barely leaving them space to move with their bulky   
pressurized suits and equipment. The cliffs soared over their heads so   
near one to the other and so tall that, if they looked up, the two of them   
seemed to become only one, closing, suffocating them.  
  
"Martinelli?" Major Marsden called the attention of the younger man.  
  
"Yeah, sir?"  
  
"Do as you're ordered and keep your mouth shut."  
  
Sighing with resignation and boredom, Martinelli nodded inside his helmet.   
"Affirmative, sir."  
  
Even when Vasquez had estimated they would only need one hour to reach the   
beacon signal's point, in the end they actually needed twice that time to   
cross the whole length of the canyon, so narrow and intricate it was.  
  
Finally, when they were so tired and sweaty inside their protective suits   
that Marsden was beginning to question the wisdom of his own orders, the   
narrow passage opened without warning. And the five men of SG-4 came into   
a large clear opening, in the middle of the gigantic formation.  
  
"Oh, Santa Maria Madre de Dios," Vasquez whispered reverently as they   
entered into the clearway.  
  
"I hear you, brother," Walters agreed as he slowly took a complete turn   
around and looked up at the scenery. "I'll be damned..."  
  
Like a pit, the opening had an approximate length of three football   
stadiums. The walls, as straight and rough as the rest, rose up to the   
very top of the tableau, describing a soft curve near the upper edge that   
formed a sort of natural dome. Something with an opening in the center,   
that they estimated would be as wide as tennis-court.  
  
Filtering through that circle, the weak reddish light of the twin suns   
bathed everything inside the clear region. And, as they moved heavily in   
the low-gravity ambience, the five men felt that they were swimming in   
blood.  
  
Bringing his advanced binoculars to the front of his facial plate, Walters   
observed the opening. "It's perfectly rounded," he said, adjusting the   
controls of the device to increase the zoom. "I'd say it's almost a   
perfect circumference. Amazing..."  
  
"And who cares about that?" Martinelli grunted with a snort. "Look at that   
shit!"  
  
Walters followed the direction of his partner's finger, and understood why   
the rest of the team was quiet and looking at the same point with what was   
a reverent, scared silence.  
  
In the exact center of the open space, a building that surprisingly   
resembled an ancient European cathedral stood up like a displaced, lost   
voyager of space and time - its gothic towers and pinnacles rising up   
sharp and proud, the edges of the roof full with twisted and snarling   
gargoyles.  
  
"What the hell is this!?!" Martinelli exclaimed, as he made the sign of   
the cross over his chest. "A fucking joke?"  
  
"I doubt it, Martinelli," Major Marsden whispered, as he started to walk   
towards the building. "It's our mission, so let's get going."  
  
"It doesn't have any windows," Walters observed needlessly, as he took a   
compact digital video camera and started recording. "Amazingly, the   
architecture style looks Gothic European... Germanic, I'd say. But those   
gargoyles... I've never seen anything that detailed, it's incredible. What   
a discovery!"  
  
"Your take, Sergeant?" the major asked his second in command, as they got   
closer to the building, standing beside one of its walls.  
  
Perkins knelt down, and passed a gloved hand over the rough surface of the   
rock. "If I didn't know it's impossible, I'd say they sculpted the whole   
building from the rock instead of constructing it. I don't know, sir, this   
is a little outside my area of knowledge."  
  
Leaning his hands on his waist, Marsden looked up to the upper part of the   
cathedral and a stone gargoyle returned his look, with its hard and blind   
eyes.  
  
=Nothing more than statues,= the military man told himself. But, still, he   
couldn't help a chill that ran down his spine, feeling himself being   
watched. "Do you think it can be...?"  
  
"Goa'uld?" Perkins shook his head in denial before remembering that his   
superior couldn't see his gesture. "No, sir, those snakes are more   
interested in destroying things than in building them. This is different."  
  
"Walters!" the Major called the cultural and scientific expert of the team   
who promptly trotted to his side, all the time recording with his camera.   
"Any idea of how old this thing might be?"  
  
The younger man remained for a few moments in silence, before answering.   
"No, sir. This planet hasn't had conditions adequate for the existence of   
life in at least a billion years, and that's if it ever had them. And I   
don't think this construction is so old, it's too well conserved. It was   
probably built by a visiting culture, although I have no idea of how they   
managed to do it, sir."  
  
"Thanks, sergeant," Marsden said, calling him by his military rank   
although the two of them knew it was purely honorific. "Anything to add?"  
  
"Sir, whatever we're looking for, it's inside this building. And although   
it gives me the creeps, we should get into it as soon as possible." He   
couldn't help a nervous giggle, that sounded ridiculously girly. "Well,   
I'm anxious to see what it is."  
  
"Uh, guys?" Martinelli's voice came then through their speakers. "You   
should take a look at this."  
  
The foursome quickly rounded the building until they found their partner   
waiting for them, and the short Italian-American man indicated to the   
building doubtfully. "What's that?"  
  
"I think it's a door, lasagna-brain," Vasquez told him, with a snort of   
laughter. "Haven't you ever seen one before?"  
  
"It's a shame that with these gloves you can't see which finger I'm   
showing you, Bear," Martinelli growled at his partner. "I mean, what is   
that?"  
  
On both sides of the large door, tall and wide enough to belong to a   
medieval castle, similar statues of dogs sculpted in the same red rock   
guarded the entrance.  
  
They were the size of a Percheron horse, and each one of them possessed   
three heads with their snouts opened in twisted snarls, showing their   
intimidating canines and bifurcated, reptile-like tongues.  
  
Instead of tails, the men noticed as they rounded the statues while   
examining them, the hellhounds had similar, and horrible, snakes. The   
craftsmanship had been so elaborate and careful, that they had chills only   
looking at them.  
  
"Cerberus, the mythological dog that guards the gates of Hell," Walters   
said, as he knelt down beside the statue on the right and brushed the   
thick dust away from the stand where it was settled. "There's an   
inscription here... wow..."  
  
"What, Walters?" Marsden asked the man, starting to get impatient. Time   
was running low, and he was beginning to share his sergeant's impressions.   
The sooner they got out of there, the better for all of them.  
  
No matter what, he couldn't break free from the sensation of being   
watched.  
  
"Well, ah, the inscription, sir," Walters said doubtfully. "It's... it's   
in Latin, sir."  
  
"Latin?" Marsden frowned, and knelt down beside his subordinate. "Can you   
read it?"  
  
Walters gulped soundly and licked his suddenly-dry lips, wishing he could   
lift up the facial plate of his helmet and wipe off all the sweat that was   
drenching his face and the back of his neck.  
  
"Yes, sir. It's very archaic, but I think... uh... 'here is the First One,   
the one that was, the one that will be, guarded by time and space. May his   
memory fade away, may this door never be opened again...' There's   
something else written below, but I can't...no, wait, here it is. 'Not   
with fire, not with steel, only with the same... 'sanguis'?"  
  
"Blood," Martinelli whispered, remembering his lessons from his Catholic   
school and making the sign of the cross again. "I'm not liking this, sir.   
I'm not liking this at all."  
  
"Already wanting to go home to your mom?" Vasquez asked him. This time,   
and much to his surprise, he didn't get any retort from the   
Italian-American Airman.  
  
Marsden licked his lips, and considered his options. "Let's go inside."  
  
"Sir?" Martinelli asked with trembling voice. "Is it necessary? I mean,   
not that I'm scared, but..."  
  
"Do I have to remind you that we're on a mission, Martinelli?" Perkins   
asked him, as he got closer to the large double door and tested its   
surface. "Metal, I'm not sure which kind."  
  
"It looks very heavy and solid," Vasquez said, walking beside him. "Do we   
use the C-4?"  
  
"We could do that," the sergeant said, leaning against the door, "or we   
could just push it."  
  
Grinning, Vasquez imitated him, adding his strength to the one of the man.   
"I hadn't though about that."  
  
The large gate remained immobile at first but then, as Walters and Marsden   
and finally, although very reluctantly, Martinelli added their help, it   
slowly opened with a creaking sound as its metallic edges scratched the   
stone surface of the interior floor.  
  
"It seems that it hadn't been opened for awhile," Walters observed, seeing   
the white mark that the door had left on the floor.  
  
Following the rest of his teammates, Martinelli shook his head. "We should   
have left it that way."  
  
Before anyone of them could answer him, a sharp noise like the one caused   
by a fork screeching the surface of a dish was heard and the five men were   
suddenly pushed to the floor by a mighty force that choked the air of   
their lungs.  
  
"What was that?" Perkins asked, rolling onto his back and feeling suddenly   
that he weighed a ton. "What is this?"  
  
"The gravity... it's suddenly increased. Vasquez!" the major ordered, as   
he tried to stand up to his feet. "Do a complete run-down of the ambient   
parameters."  
  
"Yes, sir," the airman said, keying in the console on his forearm. "Well,   
this is...sir, all parameters are on green levels."  
  
"Green?" Marsden asked. "That's impossible."  
  
"No, sir. All parameters; pressure is one atmosphere, temperature is 25   
degrees Celsius, humidity is 25 percent..." Vasquez brought his gloved   
hands to the juncture of his helmet with the rest of the suit. And, before   
any of his partners could do anything to prevent it, he opened the locks   
and fastenings, taking off the helmet with a hissing sound of   
depressurized air.  
  
As the rest of the SG-4 team looked at him with open mouths, Vasquez took   
a long and greedy breath and the sound produced by his lungs filled the   
still, dry air of the building.  
  
"The air is definitely breathable, sir," he said with a large smile. "A   
little dry, but breathable." He pointed with his head to the open door and   
smiled. "Something inside this building must be generating a force field,   
keeping the poisonous gases outside."  
  
After a short moment of doubt, the rest of the team followed his example   
and one by one they retired their helmets, breathing freely for the first   
time in hours and, after removing their gloves too, wiping their faces and   
necks with expression of deep relief.  
  
"Keep the helmets and the gloves close," Marsden advised them, "in case   
the conditions change again."  
  
Receiving a series of 'yessir's' as response and as the group got   
accustomed again to the Earthly gravity, Major Marsden looked around. And,   
fastening his helmet and gloves to his utility belt, started to take   
charge of the situation.  
  
"Sergeant, Vasquez, I want a control point established here ASAP. Walters,   
you and me will reconnoiter this place. Martinelli, you come with us."  
  
The military team promptly followed their commandant's orders and, as   
Perkins and Vasquez deployed the equipment they had carried from the   
vehicles, Marsden, Walters and Martinelli started the exploration of the   
interior of the building, their weapons out and ready.  
  
"This place is large," Martinelli whispered, keeping his voice low without   
thinking about it. "At least more than my flat. I wonder what kind of rent   
you gotta pay for this place."  
  
"Martinelli..." the Major said, his tone showing clearly how low his   
patience was running. "Any idea, Walters?"  
  
As he examined the tall ceilings and rough wall with the powerful light of   
the halogen flashlight attached to the barrel of his M4 carbine, Walters   
bit his own lip pensively and shook his head.  
  
"I don't know what to say, sir," he sincerely said, "all this has me   
deeply confused. The building seems European in its exterior style, but   
there is a surprising lack of decoration in the interior. And, frankly,   
any suggestion I could make would be just a feeble hypothesis. The truth   
is that I have no idea about who could have built this, when, why or how."  
  
"Nice to know that you have everything under control, fella," Martinelli   
whispered as they moved from a place to other, walking backwards behind   
them and covering their backs with his automatic USAS-12 shotgun. The   
building was divided in smaller squared rooms, about ten feet large each   
one, with doors on each wall. "This is like a fuckin' maze. What do we do,   
sir?"  
  
"Keep exploring it," Marsden said as he took a small plastic flask from   
the interior of one of his pockets. The Major unscrewed its cork and let a   
few drops of a green luminescent thick liquid fall in the center of the   
room. "This will serve to mark our trail. Come on, let's go."  
  
For half an hour, the trio explored the maze of rooms and doors until,   
when they were about to lose their patience, they arrived at a distinctive   
room in which they calculated would be the center of the building.  
  
That room, about three times larger than the previous ones they had   
visited, had an opening in the ceiling. And, when they looked up they   
noticed that it was right beneath the larger opening in the dome-like   
exterior. The red glow of the twin suns entered through it and, once   
again, Marsden had the sensation of being bathed by an ocean of blood.  
  
"Too gloomy for me," Martinelli muttered between clenched teeth, as the   
moved to the center of the room.  
  
In the middle of the room there was a statue, about ten feet tall,   
representing a winged angel with large extended feather wings and sculpted   
in the purest, whitest marble they had seen.  
  
The angel, wearing long vaporous robes, had his arms extended in front of   
him, the hands together right at the men's eye-level with the palms up as   
if he was asking or begging for something. His face, serene and calm, was   
so beautiful that it was almost painful to look straight at him.  
  
=Unnaturally beautiful,= Marsden thought, captivated by his chiseled,   
asexual features.  
  
In his hands, or floating about two inches above them to be exact, there   
was a perfect sphere the size of a cue ball. Something made of glass and   
shining with an inner golden glow that managed to make the red dusk of the   
suns vanish, casting light and shadows on the angel's face, giving them   
life.  
  
"Amazing," Walters said, as Marsden and himself walked close to the angel   
and the object his hands were holding. Raising his electronic devices, the   
scientific member of the team did a fast check in of the ambient   
parameters.  
  
"Simply amazing. This... ball, is apparently the source of the beacon   
signal. Somehow it's projecting light, but not heat or any other kind of   
radiation perceivable by our instruments. It's... well, amazing."  
  
Out of the corner of his eyes, practically on the very limits of his   
vision, Martinelli would have sworn he had seen something moving. Not a   
body, not a figure but more like the whisper of a shadow.  
  
Nevertheless, he turned around raising his weapon and his dark eyes   
scanned nervously the red semidarkness on the room. His sensation of   
suffocation and of being watched increased to the point of being   
intolerable and he felt a cold, chilling sweat drenching his body under   
his heavy suit.  
  
Gulping down, nervously, he licked his lips and tasted the salty flavor of   
his sweat accumulated on his lower lip. 'The taste of fear', as they had   
called it on the academy.  
  
The Italian-American airman took off the safety of his weapon, and loaded   
a round into the chamber.  
  
Marsden sighed deeply and put on his gloves, before reaching for the   
shining glass ball. "Are you sure that's safe?" Walters asked him.  
  
He nodded softly, although he wasn't really sure. "Intelligence said that   
there was the possibility that there would be a great source of power   
here, guarded in the middle of this nothingness. It has to be this."  
  
Walters nodded doubtfully, wondering how would Intelligence have   
discovered such information and he allowed the officer in command to   
proceed without saying anything else. Truth to be told, he was too   
intrigued not to fall to the temptation of taking that ball home and   
ripping all its secrets from its shining interior.  
  
From his point of view as he looked up, Major Marsden found himself lost   
in the void gaze of the marble angel, trapped into his rounded blind eyes   
as his gloved hand, seemingly by its own volition, closed around the glass   
sphere.  
  
=It's warm,= he thought, taking the artifact from the angel's hands, his   
eyes never leaving the statue's ones.  
  
And then, he suddenly stopped breathing.  
  
The angel's features melted the moment that the ball abandoned his hands,   
changing, rearranging. His beautiful appearance vanished into a demonic   
face, ridges, planes and edges appearing on the polished surface, turning   
it into a twisted grimace full of rage and hate.  
  
His thin lips opened, allowing the military man to see a set of pointed   
fangs, long and sharp as razor blades.  
  
"Oh, God!" he heard Walters whispering, allowing him to know that he   
wasn't dreaming it. "What the hell is this?"  
  
He couldn't answer him, his whole attention was trapped by the hate in   
those white marble eyes first. And then by that blinding light coming from   
the glass interior, as the shining of the ball in his hands grew   
exponentially and the warm sensation he had felt became a burning pain   
even through his thick gloves.  
  
Marsden felt pain as he had never felt it before but he didn't scream, he   
didn't even release the slightest sigh. He kept on looking at that light   
until its bright intensity blinded him for real, and its heat burnt the   
skin of his hands, making it bubble up and separating his flesh from his   
bones.  
  
Not even when the fabric of his gloves was set into flames, not even when   
his eyeballs started to boil, not even when his inner organs liquefied and   
he tasted his blood inside his mouth, not even then did he release the   
slightest sound.  
  
He couldn't. He was already dead and all that remained of Major Stephen   
Marsden, USAF, was an empty, bleeding casket.  
  
=Dead,= the idea passed through his mind in an exhalation. =Dead, but not   
finished.= He still had something to do before that, he had a mission to   
accomplish.  
  
Reaching out with his hand, as the flesh started to get rotten on his   
bones, he grabbed Walters by the chest of his suit and brought the younger   
man closer to him, effortlessly lifting him from the floor.  
  
The scientific soldier couldn't react, overwhelmed by the panic. And when   
his superior officer looked at him with empty eye-sockets that oozed the   
white fluid that had been once his eyes, Edwin Walters was only able to   
scream at the top of his lungs.  
  
And, when the undead corpse that had once been Stephen Marsden bit him on   
the neck, ripping a large chunk of the flesh of his throat, he couldn't   
even do that anymore.  
  
A fountain of blood spurted out from the horrible wound as his muscles and   
tendons were ripped from his neck, exposing his trachea. The warm red   
liquid fell on the animated corpse's corrupted face and he shook his head   
like a shark, completely ripping the chunk of flesh from Walter's throat,   
hungrily munching it.  
  
=Delicious,= the thing that had been Stephen Marsden thought, swallowing   
it into his decaying body. =The most delicious thing in the universe.=  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
The shadows were taking form around him. In front of his eyes, the dark   
shadows detached from the obscure nooks and corners, filtering between the   
junctures of the walls; standing up, thickening and taking human form.  
  
Martinelli closed his eyes for a brief moment and shook his head, thinking   
that it had to be some kind of hallucination, something provoked by his   
deep state of fear or by something else he couldn't think of.  
  
But they were still there, when he opened his eyes again. Darker than the   
darkness itself, humanoid beings made of retails of night. Red eyes   
looking at him from faces that could only be described as nightmarish and   
open mouths full of pointed, twisted fangs.  
  
Lips that moved, whispering, murmuring an intelligible string of words   
that, at the Italian-American airman's ears, was terrifying and   
captivating at the same time.  
  
"Santa Madonna," Martinelli whispered, making the sign of the cross again.   
"Major! Sir! We have to get outta here!"  
  
As the shadows started to move, circling Martinelli, the soldier gulped   
and, with his weapon trembling in his shaking hands, turned around just in   
time to see how a rotting body wearing his commanding officer's clothes   
grabbed one of his fellow soldiers.  
  
And, as the man screamed and weakly struggled in his grasp, tore a large   
part of his throat with his teeth, provoking an explosion of blood that   
drenched his putrid face.  
  
"Oh, my God," Martinelli panted as the creature released Walter's lifeless   
body, letting it fall into a shapeless pile of flesh at his feet, and then   
turned around to look at him with empty, bleeding eye-sockets.  
  
A pair of glowing red dots arose inside those empty cavities, pinning   
Martinelli's figure as the corpse's mouth enlarged into an impossible wide   
smile that showed twin rows of shark-like fangs that oozed blood and   
saliva.  
  
The creature started to move, walking towards the soldier and Martinelli   
finally came out of his trance, shouldering his USAS-12 and aiming at him.  
  
"Don't move, mutherfuckah!" he shouted at the creature as he noisily took   
off the safety.  
  
However, the monster kept walking toward him as the shadow demons started   
to move around them, walking on foggy feet faster and faster until they   
became a blur of movement, a tornado of darkness surrounding them.  
  
The creature's smile grew if such a thing was possible, until the corners   
of his mouth were touching his ears and his jaws emerged from his   
over-stretched lips like the ones of a shark.  
  
"Chaaaarlie..." Marsden's voice came out with a haunting singsong tone,   
even when his lips didn't move an inch. "Cooome with meee..."  
  
Centering the sights on his head, Martinelli clenched his teeth together.   
"Fuck you, sir."  
  
Martinelli pulled the trigger and, as the thunder of the gunshot silenced   
the maddening murmurs of the shadows, reverberating on the red stone   
walls, the upper right part of Marsden's head exploded into a thick mist   
of blood, brain tissue and bone fragments, exposing the interior of his   
skull.  
  
It made him backpedal a couple of steps as the liquid remains of his brain   
oozed out of the tremendous wound, sliding down the side of his rotten   
face.  
  
His smile, in spite of this, never faltered.  
  
Breathless, with his dark eyes wide open in shock and panic, Martinelli   
emitted a low meaningless gurgle, knowing that he was about to piss in his   
pants. "No," he whispered, lowering his shotgun. "No! No!! Noooo!!!"  
  
Losing control as fast as he was losing his grasp on sanity, the   
Italian-American airman pulled the trigger of his weapon again and again,   
hitting his commanding officer in his shoulder, his chest, his abdomen...  
  
Every time that the .12-gauge slugs hit against Marsden's corrupted body,   
a thin mist of blood and something that was indefinable sprayed out of the   
newly-opened wound. And the zombie backpedaled a couple of steps with the   
force of the impact, until he reached the twister formed by the moving,   
whispering shadows.   
  
But he didn't fall down, he didn't die.  
  
In the end, when his USAS-12 clicked finally empty, the only thing that   
Martinelli was able to do was let his gun fall to the stone floor. And,   
panting heavily and feeling his throat because of the effort of screaming,   
look helpless as the corpse started to walk again towards him, his fanged   
smile wider than ever and the glass ball in his hand shining like a   
nuclear explosion.  
  
His eyes were trapped by that bright intensity, and Martinelli didn't know   
anymore if to laugh or to cry as Marsden's corpse started to call him   
again, singing out his name.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
While the were deploying the surveillance and data analysis systems,   
Master Sergeant Perkins couldn't shrug off the impression that someone, or   
something, was right behind him, looking over his shoulder. And, some   
minutes later, this feeling was replaced by an intense sensation of being   
watched.  
  
And then, when he was about to call himself crazy, he started hearing the   
voices.  
  
Incoherent, intelligible, whispering right in his ears.  
  
Leaving what he was doing, Perkins stood up and turned around, sure that   
he had seen something moving out of the corner of his eye. "What was   
that?"  
  
"What?" Vasquez asked, raising his eyes from the screen of the monitor he   
was checking. "Sarge?"  
  
Lifting his M4 carbine, Perkins took a slow turn around, aiming at the   
shadows, partially vanished thanks to the halogen lamps they had placed   
and the flashlights of their weapons. "Something is moving there," he   
whispered in a low voice.  
  
Vasquez arched his brow. "Sarge, this place is dead. Nothing's lived here   
for the last one thousand..."  
  
The beam of Perkins' flashlight reached one of the farthest corners and   
something, for the lack of a better word, moved inside the circle of   
light. Something bulky but twisted, like a disfigured man enveloped in   
thick, black robes. But it wasn't a man.  
  
His head moved and, for the shortest of seconds, they saw a pale face,   
white as paper, plus a set of inhuman features with glowing red eyes and   
pointed teeth that would be more fitting for a carnivorous beast.  
  
Then, the thing covered his face with his long, twisted arms and moved out   
of the circle of light, vanishing into the darkness. Perkins tried to find   
it again with the beam of his flashlight, but it was impossible; the thing   
had simply disappeared.  
  
After letting out a short, perplexed, moan, Vasquez scrambled for his LSW   
in such a hurry that he stumbled upon practically all of the hardware they   
had deployed, throwing some valuable pieces to the floor.  
  
Neither he nor his sergeant worried the slightest for it, they just raised   
their weapons and stood back to back, turning around as they tried to   
dissipated the darkness with their flashlights.  
  
"I got him!" Vasquez shouted, when his beam of light captured the creature   
again for a brief moment before he, she of it quickly moved back to the   
darkness, effectively vanishing into it.  
  
The echo of his voice hadn't still faded when Perkins flashlight captured   
the creature's figure again, right on the opposite part of the large room   
where Vasquez had seen it before. A heartbeat, and the dark creature ran   
away.  
  
"Shit," he growled, "either that thing is very fast, or there's more than   
one of them."  
  
"Probably the second," Vasquez whispered with a nod of agreement. Licking   
his dry lips nervously, he eyed the semi-opened door leading outside. "I'm   
not liking this at all, Sarge. We should put our suits on and get away   
from here, before it's too late."  
  
Shaking his head in denial, Perkins kept waving his rifle, the butt firmly   
anchored against his shoulder. "Negative, airman. We won't go without our   
partners. Furthermore," he added as the volume of the unnerving murmurs   
grew up, becoming deafening, "I think it's already too late."  
  
As if it had been waiting for the most dramatic moment possible, an   
invisible force pushed the door, closing it with a rumble that shook the   
entire building. Perkins stifled a curse, as a little voice inside him   
told him that was the sound of their fate being sealed.  
  
The darkness turned complete black, as they lost the soft reddish glow of   
the exterior light. And the two military men found themselves trapped in   
the middle of an island of yellow light offered by the halogen lamps they   
had installed, two shipwrecked persons lost in a vast ocean of night.  
  
With sharks swimming in it, waiting for them.  
  
"What are those things?" Vasquez asked, before taking a small medal with a   
tiny cross and the effigy of the Holy Virgin Maria from the interior of   
his suit. He kissed it, and started to pray softly under his breath.   
"Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros pecadores..."  
  
Shaking his head, Perkins wished he had the faith to find comfort in a   
prayer.  
  
Anyway, before he could answer the younger man, a scream cut off the   
incoherent, endless string of the murmurs. And, as both Vasquez and   
Perkins turned to aim their weapons to the source of the unearthly yell, a   
disheveled and wide-eyed Martinelli came running into the room by the door   
he and his group had crossed barely a quarter of hour before.  
  
=Or maybe it's a ghost looking like Charlie Martinelli,= Perkins thought,   
looking at him and seeing the paleness of his complexion and the pure,   
sincere fear shining in his eyes.  
  
In a corner of his mind, he realized that the phantasmagoric voices had   
gone silent and that the only movement he could see now was at the very   
limits of his range of vision, as if those things could only live in the   
periphery of his consciousness.  
  
For a second, Perkins thought that Martinelli was going to outrun them, as   
he was running as fast as if he had the Devil himself on his tail, and he   
reached out with his arm to grab him by the chest of his suit, stopping   
him.   
  
Not recognizing the Master Sergeant at first, Martinelli yelped and   
struggled in his grasp, trying to break free as he shouted incoherently.   
"No, no, let me go, Madonna, Santa Madonna, no, please, no..."  
  
"Martinelli!!" the sergeant shouted, shaking him and trying to take him   
out of his panicked state. "Snap out of it!!"  
  
Now that he was able to look at him closer, Perkins noticed the deep   
wounds on his face and neck, and the way in which his whole suit was had   
been ripped. If he hadn't known better, he would have said claws had   
caused it. Anyway, what he realized was that the only reason Martinelli   
was alive was thanks to the protective plates of Kevlar of that same suit.  
  
"Sarge!!" the Italian-American exclaimed, as the light of recognition   
finally shone in his eyes. "Those things... Walters... the major..."  
  
"What?" Perkins asked. "What happened to them?"  
  
"Walters is dead!!" he yelled, tears of hysteria coming to his eyes. "The   
major killed him!"  
  
"What?!?" Vasquez asked in shock. "The major? Are you crazy?"  
  
Biting his lower lip until a drop of blood ran down his chin, Martinelli   
shook his head nervously. "Those things...Marsden took the ball, and   
became one of them..." By now he was practically sobbing, silent tears   
rolling down his cheeks. "He bit Walters... he ripped his fuckin' throat   
out!!"  
  
"Things?" Vasquez felt his mouth dry and wiped his lips with the back of   
his hand, as he looked nervously over his shoulder. "What kind of things?"  
  
Perkins released Martinelli's chest and moved away from him, raising his   
carbine. "Those things."  
  
The murmurs had come back and, with them, the shadows - moving around them   
outside the circle of light provided by SG-4's lamps. Their dark forms   
moved swiftly, swimming into the obscurity, their voices getting louder   
and louder in a maddening song.  
  
"We gotta get outta here!" Martinelli screamed, trying to run away. "Those   
things will kill us!"  
  
Perkins grabbed him by the shoulder before he could go, and kept him back.   
"No! The door is closed, and your suit is in pieces! You won't survive   
outside!"  
  
"We won't survive inside here, either!! We have to get out of here!"  
  
"Too late for that," Vasquez told them, seeing how the shadows were   
getting closer and closer, not intimidated anymore by their artificial   
lights. "They're coming, guys!"  
  
"Martinelli," Perkins told the younger man in a hurried tone, "you can go   
or stay here with us and fight, I won't try to stop you. But if you go,   
you will die."  
  
Looking at him with dark sad eyes, Martinelli shook his head. Then,   
drawing out his M9 pistol, he turned around and leaned his back against   
his partners. "We're all going to die anyway."  
  
"Alright, guys!" Perkins exclaimed, facing the shadows and raising his   
carbine. "Back to back, firing sectors of 120 degrees! And don't waste the   
ammo, we'll need it."  
  
At that very moment, the shadows attacked.  
  
The dry air filled with the pungent sting of the burnt cordite, the   
flashes of the firing weapons and the deafening thunder of the gunshots.   
The three remaining members of the SG-4 tried to keep the shadows back   
with all they had, tracing arcs of fire with their weapons, knocking down   
the ghostly creatures as they advanced over them en mass.  
  
Still, even over the firestorm of the shots, the murmurs were everything   
that could be heard.  
  
"Come here!! Do you want this, eh? Do you want this?" Martinelli yelled at   
the top of his lungs, feeling a mix of fear and rage filling his body.   
Swinging his pistol from one side to the other, the young man fired it   
against the shadows again and again. "Eat this! Eat this, stronzos di   
merda!! Vafanculo tutti!"  
  
They could see the impacts each time their weapons hit the shadows, the   
shadowy creatures shook and backpedaled under the rain of lead, large   
chunks of their bodies flying in the air.  
  
Looking over the sights of his Colt M4 as he fired it in short automatic   
bursts, Perkins would have sworn that those chunks vanished into rivulets   
of darkness as they got separated from their bodies, turning into nothing.  
  
And they weren't even keeping them at bay.  
  
"Come on! Come on!" he exclaimed, without stopping his fire. "Don't let   
them come any closer!"  
  
"Aaaahhh!" Vasquez yelled as he emptied his light machine-gun, shredding   
them with automatic fire. A shadowy creature took center place in his   
firing sector, and he ripped him apart with a wave of hot lead. The figure   
shook under the impacts, the shadowy body dancing under the bullets like a   
puppet in the middle of a hurricane. "Die, motherfucker, die!!"  
  
The M249LSW clicked empty and, as the frustrated airman shook it with   
rage, he took a new look at the creature in front of him and cursed under   
his breath. After the more than twenty bullets that he had put into it,   
the creature was still standing on its feet, soft rivulets of smoke coming   
out of the bullet holes on his black-robed body.  
  
"Shit," he growled, releasing the light machine-gun and reaching for his   
pistol. Before he could draw it out, the shadows moved over him like   
hungry wolves, tens of hands grasping his suit and grabbing him away. "No,   
noo!!"  
  
Powerful hands grabbing him, long fingers digging into his clothes,   
tearing them apart and digging into his flesh as he felt a burning pain as   
he had never felt it before.  
  
As his voice raised up into a crescendo of agony, Perkins and Martinelli   
turned instinctively to look at him and what they saw was enough to freeze   
the blood inside their veins.  
  
Vasquez, lifted from the floor by an uncountable groups of arms made of   
darkness that surrounded his large body, a fanged mouth attached to his   
neck, making his blood flow out in a red river as the airman shook   
spasmodically.  
  
A ripping sound and suddenly his arms were separated from his torso,   
splintered fragments of bone appearing from the bleeding trunk. Vasquez   
screamed in agony, and a blanket of shadows covered his body. One that   
dragged him away, making him vanish.  
  
"Oh, God, no," Martinelli was able to whisper, before a clawed hand   
grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him away from Perkins.  
  
The Master Sergeant turned around, firing his weapon - but, by the time he   
could look, his companion was completely out of sight.  
  
Cursing their luck, Perkins held his carbine in one hand and drew his   
pistol with the other. Turning around like a twister, the sergeant fired   
his guns again and again, managing to keep the shadows away for a few more   
moments.  
  
But then his weapons got empty and he knew it was the end of it all. He   
continued moving for a few moments, pulling the triggers, his ears full   
with the clicking sound of the hammers falling on the void of the chambers   
and the murmurs of the shadows changed their tone, becoming louder, more   
hostile.  
  
As he finally lowered them, defeated, the shadows continued moving around   
him, their chanting murmurs driving him crazy. He caught glimpses of their   
white face in the almost absolute darkness, saw their eyes, their smiles,   
felt their hate.  
  
It was the end. Perkins took a long breath and released his guns, which   
clattered against the stone floor. Closing his eyes tiredly, he let his   
head fall back and released a long, exhausted breath.  
  
"Come on," he whispered as he raised his foot, "let's finish this."  
  
Stomping down, he crushed the flashlight of his carbine with his foot,   
making darkness reign completely.  
  
The murmurs grew, accompanied by the movement of the creatures' robes   
brushing the floor as they moved over him.  
  
Perkins screamed, but just for a brief moment. After a few seconds, his   
voice died into a wet gurgle and then, not even that was heard.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Martinelli was sitting down in a corner, crouched and trembling like a   
trapped mouse. The only thing that wasn't shaking in his whole figure was   
his pistol, and that was only because he had its muzzle tightly pressed   
against his own throat, right between his Adam's apple and his chin.  
  
He was crying, sobbing as he pulled the trigger again and again and the   
firing pin hit the empty chamber. "No, please, please, please..."  
  
Around him, cornering him, the shadows kept moving in soft whispers of   
darkness, and the only thing he could outline from their ghastly figures   
were their glowing red eyes, boring into him, feeding from his sanity.   
Martinelli wanted to die, wanted to end with everything for real, that   
madness, that nightmare.  
  
"Do you want to die, Charlie?" the voice came from the other side of the   
room. "Do you really want to die?"  
  
Looking through the tears blurring his eyes, the young airman nodded   
slowly. "Please, yes, please..." he begged with desperation. "I just want   
this to end."  
  
A laugh was heard, barely more than an amused, maniacal giggle and a   
shining resplendence appeared in the middle of the room, banishing the   
shadows. The light was coming from a glass ball, a perfect sphere of pure   
light floating two inched over the open hand of the decayed corpse that   
had once been Major Marsden.  
  
As the decomposing zombie began to move toward him, flowing between the   
whispering shadows as if they weren't there, Martinelli was captivated by   
the resplendent glow of the orb and his dark eyes were lost into its   
depths.  
  
There was something in there, something moving, shape-shifting, something   
that was surprisingly dark and solid, like a stain of petroleum floating   
in a golden ocean.  
  
He could even feel it. It was pure evil.  
  
"You should think twice about that, Charlie," the zombie said, getting   
closer to him. "A new age is coming, a new reality for all of us. Don't   
you want to stay and witness its glory?"  
  
Raising the sphere, the zombie smiled wider and the intensity of the light   
grew until it became blinding - Martinelli had to look away, covering his   
eyes with his hand as his whole world was engulfed into a burning   
heatwave.  
  
It was as if he was standing next to the sun and the young airman opened   
his mouth wide, releasing a pained exhalation as his tongue swelled up,   
hindering his breathing.  
  
As he went completely blind, his vision changed and he had glimpses of a   
different world, allowing him to see a future he didn't want to live.  
  
Rivers of blood running through demolished cities. Nightmarish beings   
moving between burning buildings, as the whole surface of Earth was   
ravaged by the armies of darkness. No place for goodness anymore, no space   
for the human beings.  
  
And a thing, a creature that was only hate and poison reigning on a throne   
of darkness under an eternally burning sky.  
  
Hell on Earth.  
  
"Isn't it beautiful?" Marsden asked him, his undead grin reaching his   
earlobes as he kneeled down beside the young airman, looking at him with   
those unnatural red glows shining in his empty eye-sockets. "Isn't it   
wonderful, Charlie? Just imagine the possibilities..."  
  
At that very moment something started to ache inside Martinelli, a burning   
fury so intense that threatened to set his whole being on fire. A hate as   
he had never felt before. As his face twisted in a grimace of hate, the   
young airman spat a pink mix of saliva and blood into the corrupted face   
of the zombie.  
  
"Fuck you!" he roared. "Fuck you all, asshole!! Do you know what you can   
do with your new world? You can take it and shove it up your ass, jerk!!"  
  
Reaching out to his utility belt, Martinelli unsheathed his survival knife   
and with a soft and fast movement stabbed the undead being, sinking the   
blade in the middle of his chest to the very hilt.  
  
Backpedaling and standing up, Marsden looked down at the handle of the   
knife protruding out of his chest and then rose his glowing embers to the   
man still on his knees. The expression on his rotten face seemed   
disappointed, but Martinelli couldn't have sworn to it.  
  
"Did you say you wanted to die, Charlie?" the zombie asked, raising once   
more the shining sphere. The shining light increased its intensity once   
more, twisting inside its crystal confines as if it wanted to escape from   
them.  
  
Marsden smiled and his lips stretched out, showing his shark-like teeth.   
"Wish... granted."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Outside the ancient red building, the calmness was reigning as it had done   
for entire millennia, and the only movement was the one produced by the   
soft solar winds, brushing the arid surface of the planet, making the red   
sand form tiny twisters before falling back to the surface.  
  
Coming out from the interior of the cathedral, a sharp agonizing scream   
sliced through the silence, shattering into a thousand pieces of fear and   
pain.  
  
However, it only lasted for a few seconds. And after that, the silence and   
the calm returned once more.  
  
And, as it had been for a whole age, an age that was ending, nothing that   
was alive remained on that barren orb floating in the middle of the dark,   
cold space 150 million light years away from Earth.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
  
To be continued... 


	5. Part 5 of 10

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book III, part 5 of 10  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general   
corrections by Theo  
  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow   
kissing and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial,   
Land of 'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline   
to accommodate it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy'   
happened a lot later than it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are   
only tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of   
Highlander-style immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole   
'Immortals have no parents and are found in a little basket' is a... um,   
the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada', so let's just ignore it, OK?  
  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit,   
merely for the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander,   
Willow, Oz, Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle   
Gorch, Quentin Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property   
of Joss Whedon, Warner Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of   
Highlander and the characters mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda   
Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the Society of Watchers) are the   
property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the   
World Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are   
copyright of their respective rights owners.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language,   
so any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my   
wonderful beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please   
be kind with me. I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child,   
believe me.  
  
SUMMARY: Broderick Egoyan has carefully chosen the right moment to strike,   
when friends are against friends and all trust seems about to vanish   
between Slayerettes and Archangels. It's right when you think things   
couldn't get worse that they get worse.  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen,   
because it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book III  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as The Sergeant  
Benjamin Bratt as Santero  
Trevor Goddar as Backlash  
Dolph Lundgren as Havoc  
Rob Rowland as Chopper  
Jake Busey as Sniper  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Matthew Ferguson as Chip  
  
Bill Paxton as Major Stephen Marsden, USAF  
Tom Sizemore as Master Sergeant Ricky Perkins, USAF  
John Leguizamo as Airman First Class Charlie Martinelli, USAF  
Mario Lopez as Airman First Class Alonso 'Bear' Vasquez, USAF  
Patrick Labyorteaux as Sergeant Edwin Walters, USAF  
  
Richard Dean Anderson as Col. Jack O'Neill, USAF  
Michael Shanks as Dr. Daniel Jackson  
Amanda Tapping as Maj. Samantha Carter, USAF  
Christopher Judge as Teal'c  
Don S. Davis as Gen. George Hammond, USAF  
Teryl Rothery as Dr. Janet Fraiser  
Tom McBeath as Col. Harry Mayborne, USAF  
Peter Deluise as Airman Shepard, USAF  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
and  
  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
CHAPTER NINE: Hold me, thrill me, kiss me, kill me  
Sunnydale, California. December 4, 2002. 5:03 p.m.  
  
  
  
We played king of the mountain out on the end  
The world come charging up the hill, and we were women and men  
Now there's so much that time, time and memory fade away  
We got our own roads to ride and chances we gotta take  
We stood side by side each one fighting for the other  
We said until we died we'd always be blood brothers  
  
"Blood Brothers", Bruce Springsteen  
  
  
Xander took a deep breath, and his nostrils were filled with the salty   
scent of sea water and the thick, almost sticky smell of gasoline and fuel   
for boats.  
  
"Why is it that we always get places near the docks?" he asked out loud,   
without turning around as he knelt down at the edge of the roof. He looked   
at the distant sun, hiding behind the fake horizon created by the line of   
warehouses' roofs.  
  
Behind him, Rachel shook her head in wonder and stepped out of the shadows   
produced by the small structure that held the roof-access of the   
warehouse. Not wanting to disturb her friend, she had been silent,   
extremely silent in her approach, but it seemed that very few things could   
escape his sharp vampire hearing.  
  
"I guess it comes with the territory," she whispered, walking closer and   
sitting down beside him, on the edge of the roof. "And it's always good to   
have a route of escape."  
  
Xander let out a sigh and nodded slowly, taking a handful of loose gravel   
from the roof, playing with the small stones and using them as an excuse   
not to look straight at her. "So, they've chosen you to be the rescue   
party."  
  
The brunette Immortal smiled softly and shook her head, her soulful brown   
eyes sending a short look at him before getting captivated by the   
spectacular show offered by the setting sun.  
  
"No, I'm here on a strictly personal basis. I just thought you'd like some   
company and someone to speak to. Angel was searching for you with the same   
idea in mind, but I had the impression that you didn't really want to talk   
with him."  
  
The young vampire snorted softly, nodding with his head. "I've been   
avoiding him for the last couple of hours, and I've ended up here, using   
the sun to keep him away. Pathetic, huh?"  
  
"No, I know that it has to be hard for you." There was a moment in silence   
in which they just looked at the horizon, feeling comfortable in their   
mutual company and the friendship they shared until the brunette looked at   
him again with a soft smile. "Well, do you want to talk or... just stay   
here for awhile?"  
  
"Staying here sounds good," the young vampire said with a sigh, sitting   
down like she was doing, with his legs hanging from the edge of the roof.   
"But I guess I can't hide out for the rest of my life, it didn't work in   
the past and it wouldn't work now. Can I ask you a question?"  
  
Rachel smiled warmly at him. "Sure."  
  
"Do you believe in what we do?" At Rachel's soft arching of her brow,   
Xander shook his head and bit his lower lip. "I mean, do you think we're   
doing the right thing?"  
  
The brunette Immortal took a deep breath and looked at the setting sun, a   
strange smile coming to her beautiful lips. "I'm 100 years old, Xand," she   
whispered almost reverently, still smiling.  
  
She continued, "And in all that time, there's few things I can say I've   
learnt to be absolutely true. But one of them is that when you live as   
long as we do, you always end up seeing more evil than good, more misery   
than joy. And when that happens, you only have two choices; either you   
turn into a cynic that cares only about himself, or you try to do   
something to change things, to make them better."  
  
Turning around her head to look at him, she surrounded his broad shoulders   
with her arm and brought him closer to plant a soft kiss on his cheek.   
"I'm proud that you chose the right path so soon, little brother."  
  
Xander chuckled and leaned his head on her shoulder, letting her rock the   
two of them. "If Michael catches us this way, we're gonna be in trouble."  
  
"Nah, he has an open mind," she told him with a smile, "the guy's French,   
after all."  
  
Before they could say anything more, and while Xander was still laughing   
at her commentary, the door behind them burst open and, when they turned   
around in surprise, a bewildered Crystal came out, almost breathless and   
with her jade-green eyes wide open with a mix of tension and alarm.  
  
"I've found you at last!!" she exclaimed, turning around and going back to   
the door before they could ask questions. "We have an emergency!!"  
  
The brunette Immortal and the young vampire looked at each other with   
surprise and, standing up, quickly followed the red-haired witch into the   
bowels of the warehouse. As they crossed the lintel of the floor and   
started to descend the metallic stairs, the wailing sound of an alarm   
filled their ears, rumbling against the inner walls of the warehouse.  
  
"Who pushed the panic button?" Xander asked, covering his sensitive ears   
with his hands as Rachel and him followed Crystal into the lab, where Kyle   
was already trying to placate a nervous Elvis, who was howling at the top   
his lungs and at the rhythm of the siren.  
  
In the room, all the screens of all the computers were blasting with red   
and black flashes of color, similar messages of warning appearing on their   
surfaces. "And could someone make it stop, please?"  
  
"It was me!" Spike exclaimed, coming into the area with a fast step and   
followed by a confused Angel. "We 'ave a bloody situation 'ere, mate!"  
  
"This is supposed to be for class-one emergencies, Blondie," the tall   
Texan said, introducing the de-activation code into the computer. "It's   
not a toy for when you get bored."  
  
The bleached-hair vampire looked at him with hostility, but just turned   
around to face Xander. When the young vampire saw the wild look in his   
usually cold blue eyes and the thin layer of perspiration on his pale   
forehead, he knew that Spike wasn't playing, not at all.  
  
"What's going on?" Xander asked, quickly getting into his commanding mode.  
  
"I just got a call from Willow," Spike told his younger blood-brother   
fighting with a feeling of nervousness and anxiety that was totally alien   
to him, "she sounded weak and was speakin' incoherently, I dunno... she   
just didn't sound right."  
  
"What?" Angel asked with a frown of worry. "What does that mean?"  
  
"Read my lips, Peaches, I – don't – know," the bleached-hair vampire   
growled at his sire with annoyance, before turning back to Xander. "She   
told me somethin' about armed guys that shot the Slayer and took the   
Watcher, I-"  
  
This time, Angel's yell thundered even over the sharp whine of the siren.   
"What!?!"  
  
The souled vampire grabbed Spike by the shoulder and spun him around,   
making his childe face him. "Buffy was shot? Why didn't you say that   
before?"  
  
"I'm tellin' ya now, OK!?!" Spike shouted back, slapping his hands away in   
rage.   
  
"Stop it, the both of you!" Xander exclaimed, walking between sire and   
childe and lifting his hands to separate them. "Now, Spike, tell me   
exactly what Willow said. And shut off that damn siren, Kyle!!"  
  
The tall Texan finally succeeded in silencing the alarm. All the computer   
screens returned to their usual scroll of seemingly random data and   
images, as Angel started to nervously pace back and front beside his   
bleached-hair childe, his dark brown eyes fixed on him.  
  
Spike sighed and closed his eyes, making an effort to center himself. "It   
was all very fast, and she was almost soundin' as if she was ranting... I   
don't know, she mentioned men with guns, that the Slayer had been shot and   
the Watcher taken, then somethin' about Cordelia and Oz and then the   
communication was lost."  
  
At hearing his own lover's name, Xander's stomach did a flip-flop and then   
he remembered that he had been observing, almost spying, from the roof as   
Cordelia had gotten in with Buffy and Giles into the British man's old   
car.  
  
It was logical to think that if the Slayer had suffered some kind of   
attack, she had probably been near and gotten herself involved in the   
whole situation.  
  
Maybe she was also hurt, maybe even...   
  
No, he would have known that. He would have felt it. And he didn't dare go   
there, all his friends needed him centered and stable now.  
  
Xander shook his head and came out of his momentary trance, in time to see   
Angel crossing the whole length of the area to the exit with long and   
decided steps. "Where are you going?"  
  
"Where do you think?" the souled vampire growled, retrieving his coat from   
the rack. "I'm going to Giles' store, that's where they were heading."  
  
"You can't know if they made it," Spike told him succinctly, "or if Willow   
called from there."  
  
"Did she call to your cell phone, or to your private line?" Kyle asked,   
clicking on the keyboard.  
  
"My private line," the bleached-hair vampire said, crossing his arms over   
his chest.  
  
"Then the system will have searched for the origin of the call   
automatically, and it'll be all registered."  
  
"And the conversation?" Xander asked him. "Did the system also record it?"  
  
Kyle shook his head without looking at him, his whole attention centered   
on the data appearing on the screen. "Nope, it only does that with the   
calls to the main line, the ones directed to our private extensions are   
considered personal and private. Oh, shit," he growled.  
  
"What?" Angel asked, his anxiety and confusion growing up with each   
passing second.  
  
"The call was made from a cell phone, the number is..."  
  
"It's Cordelia's," Xander said with a sigh, reading the number on the   
screen.  
  
"Do you have any other ideas?" Angel asked them, passing a tired hand   
through his hair.  
  
Spike and Xander shared a short and meaningful look and then the younger   
vampire looked at Angel with a strange smile, before turning around to   
face Kyle. "Yeah, we have. Kyle, please, give me a general location."  
  
He did not pause giving orders for a second. "Rachel," he called the   
brunette's attention as the Texan jumped from one computer to the other   
with his fingers flying over the keyboards and their respective mice, "I   
don't like how this is looking, get the weapons ready and try to find   
Michael, we may need everybody's help on this."  
  
"Do you know the code for the armory's lock?" Kyle asked her, without   
taking his eyes from the screen.  
  
Rachel nodded, already walking out of the area. "You still use the   
measures of the month's playmate, don't you?"  
  
The tall Texan grunted something intelligible and managed a nervous smile.   
"Well, I..."  
  
"Come on," Xander told him with a no-nonsense tone, "we don't have time   
for that."  
  
"It's done," Kyle said, pushing a final key on the computer.  
  
Immediately, a two-dimensional display of Sunnydale appeared on the main   
and widest screen with a series of colored dots distributed all along its   
surface, some of them moving and some of them remaining still.  
  
"What is this?" Angel asked with a frown, getting closer to the computer.  
  
Each one of the small dots had a number inscribed in the middle and when   
Angel found the corresponding and explaining legend in one of the corners   
of the screen, he couldn't help but do a double take at it.  
  
1 - Harris, Alexander L.  
2 - Deveraux, Jean-Michel E.  
3 - Curran, Rachel R. ...   
  
All the Archangels.  
  
7 - Summers, Buffy A.  
8 - Chase, Cordelia E.  
9 - Rosenberg, Willow J. ...   
  
All the Slayerettes.  
  
Their names. All of their names, with a number assigned to each one of   
them. And all of them localized in that map on the computer. Angel didn't   
have to make a great effort to put two and two together.  
  
"You have us all bugged!?" he exclaimed with a mix of incredulity, anger   
and surprise. "But how... ?"  
  
"Miniaturized location chips strategically placed where we could be sure   
you would always carry them," Xander explained him matter-of-factly, his   
intense eyes never leaving the computer's screen. "The back of Buffy's   
cross, Giles' pocket watch, one of your rings..."  
  
The souled vampire looked at the silver rings on his left hand, as if they   
were suddenly offensive. "Why?" he asked simply.  
  
"It's just for safety, for something like this, not because we wanted to   
violate your privacy," the younger vampire said, leaning over Kyle's   
shoulder to have a better look. "I knew you wouldn't feel comfortable with   
the idea, so that's why we didn't tell you anything about it."  
  
Kyle snorted, and shook his head. "Yeah, and that's why I needed two whole   
weeks to place all those little fellas without you noticing it." The Texan   
sent a twisted smile and a look towards the souled vampire, out of the   
corner of his eye. "You wouldn't believe what I had to do to..."  
  
"Cowboy..." Spike growled at him. "Do you wanna get to the bloody 'eart o'   
the matter once and for all, or are you gonna make me rip your lungs out?"  
  
"OK, OK..." the tall Texan did a quick review of the data and then began   
to separate the different groups of dots, zooming in on them and placing   
them on different screens.  
  
"OK, we're here, that's correct, Buffy and Willow are at the store, Giles   
is moving along Lafayette Street, and he's doing it pretty fast so I guess   
he's in a car. Cordy and Oz are together, moving along Bowmount Avenue   
and... wow! They're going almost at 80 mph!! What's going on here?!?"  
  
"Buffy and Willow aren't moving," Angel said, "what does that mean?"  
  
"Not much," Kyle explained, "the zoom is still pretty low, they could be   
moving inside the room and it wouldn't be reflected on the screen."  
  
"Do we have any sat online?" Xander asked him.  
  
Kyle nodded, rolling on his chair to another computer and getting   
comfortable in front of it before starting to click on its keyboard.   
"Yeah, the ESS-1 and 2 are over Europe and the north of Africa right now,   
but the ESS-3 is free and over the continent. We can use it in a minute,   
but I need your authorization code to request its use."  
  
Angel shook his head with a thick mist of confusion covering his brain, it   
was just too much in too little time. "Surveillance satellites? What are   
you doing? How…? What are we waiting for?"  
  
"We're not going out blindly and without knowing what's going on, Angel,   
no matter how much we want to do so," Xander told him sharply as he leaned   
over the computer, and quickly typed the eight-digit alphanumeric code on   
the keyboard.  
  
"Alright, when the sat is online I want you to focus it on the store and   
take thermal and infra-red images of the place ASAP. Cris!"  
  
"Yes?" the red-haired witch asked, raising a cool eyebrow.  
  
"Start calling the store's phone and Cordy's cell, see if you can   
communicate with them. Spike," he called the bleached-hair vampire, "we'll   
move out as soon as we have all the data, get the vehicles ready."  
  
Spike nodded sharply and without uttering a word quickly went away,   
leaving an astounded Angel behind him.  
  
The souled vampire wasn't very sure of what was really going on and, in   
spite of his previous analysis of Xander's team for Buffy, he hadn't   
imagined to what point their abilities could reach.  
  
=Surveillance satellites, for God's sake!!= That implied money and a power   
he hadn't even thought about. That meant that Xander's explanations had   
been, at least, deceptive.  
  
"We have to talk about all this," he said to his younger blood-brother   
quietly, "and very seriously."  
  
The young vampire just looked at him over his shoulder, and nodded slowly.   
"We will, but not now. Now, we have more important things to take care   
of."  
  
"Sat online!! We have images," Kyle announced, as he grabbed a joystick   
near the computer he was working on and began to handle it carefully.  
  
The tall Texan zoomed in and those present had a clear, almost freakishly   
defined image of the roof of the building in which Giles' store was   
placed.  
  
As he manipulated the joystick with his left hand, Kyle moved his right   
one over the keyboard, his bright blue eyes never leaving the screen.   
"Changing to thermograph-enhanced camera," he said, pushing the   
corresponding keys.  
  
As he zoomed in even more, the image on the screen changed to a thermal   
representation of the interior of the store, with a scale of colors that   
went from black for cold to red for hot.  
  
Two human forms were discernible in the seemingly chaotic distribution of   
color; one of them in what was an unmistakable fetal position, and the   
other in a most shapeless way, but both of them obviously lying on the   
floor.  
  
The last figure, instead of the expected red and orange, appeared in more   
colder yellow tones. Angel had to make an effort not to moan in physical   
pain, when the legend of the localization chips appeared on glowing green   
letters on the screen, identifying the cooling body as Buffy's one.  
  
"We have two bodies," Kyle whispered unnecessarily, the tension on his   
voice betraying his apparent professional coldness. "Willow's and Buffy's,   
if the localization chips aren't wrong."  
  
"She's..." Angel almost couldn't voice the words, so constricted was his   
throat. "Buffy is cold..."  
  
"The store's phone gives no response," Crystal announced, "and Cordelia's   
cell gives a busy signal. Maybe Willow didn't have the chance to switch it   
off."  
  
Xander nodded with a grunt but, before he could say anything, Rachel came   
back into the lab with a fast step and a worried expression. "I can't get   
in contact with Michael," she said as he handed the young vampire his   
sheathed sword, "his cell doesn't seem to work."  
  
"He doesn't appear on the location screen, either," Kyle commented   
off-hand.  
  
"What do you mean by that, he doesn't appear?" Rachel asked with wide-open   
and shocked eyes.  
  
"Exactly that," the tall Texan tried to said calm. "He doesn't appear on   
it. Maybe he's out of range or the chip has been damaged somehow, I don't   
know."  
  
Xander closed his eyes and cursed under his breath. "God! Can't we have   
just one crisis at a time?" The young vampire felt a sting of worry for   
his friend and mentor's current state, but he knew that the French   
Immortal could take care of himself.  
  
And, as he had told Angel barely moments ago, they had more important   
things to worry about. "Kyle, focus now on Giles, this time I want thermal   
and real time images."  
  
Kyle nodded sharply and did as he was told, changing the image on the   
screen to show a dark vehicle moving along a street at the maximum speed   
allowed by law, driving inside the ongoing traffic as if it was a much   
smaller car.  
  
"Isn't that a Humvee?" the tall Texan asked with a frown of puzzlement.  
  
"Seems like it," Xander said, pointing with his finger on the screen with   
the thermal version of the image. "Giles is in that car with four other   
people. What about Cordy and Oz?"  
  
Kyle handled the joystick once more, making the image move to show a white   
car speeding a couple of blocks behind the Humvee. The young vampire   
frowned when he saw it on the screen.  
  
"They're alone," he whispered almost to himself, biting his lower lips as   
his brain worked overtime. "Can we follow Giles' signal from a car?"  
  
Kyle nodded in affirmation, already getting up from his chair. "I can   
receive the signal in the Pathfinder's driving computer."  
  
"Alright then," Xander exclaimed, turning around to look at each one of   
those present. "I want communication systems delivered to everybody, we   
have to assume that these people are armed and that they're dangerous. So   
I also want bulletproof vests for all the humans, and that goes for you   
too, Cris," he told the red-haired witch, seeing that she was opening her   
mouth to protest.  
  
He continued, "OK people, we're moving out! Rachel, take Angel and Spike   
and get to the store. The rest of us will follow that Humvee to wherever   
it's going, and get Giles back. Come on, we're in a hurry!!"  
  
"It's still daylight out there, and the sun won't set completely for   
another twenty minutes," Angel told Xander as he accompanied him to take   
his jacket and the rest of his equipment while the group dissolved around   
them and started to follow Xander's commands quick and efficiently. "How   
are Spike and I supposed to make it to the store?"  
  
"Through the sewers," Xander said succinctly as he adjusted a tiny   
headphone around his right ear. The thin strap held the double microphones   
around his throat, and the wires coming from both pieces of hardware   
joined them to the radio on his waist.  
  
He then went about checking his personal weapons, and starting to hide   
them underneath his plain leather jacket.  
  
"That'll take longer than waiting for the sun to go down," Angel   
protested, barely controlling his nervousness. "We can't go walking."  
  
As he secured his new H&K USP Sport Stainless on a side holster under his   
left arm and locked the safety strap, Xander just gave him a twisted, evil   
smile that made the souled vampire arc his brow questioningly. "Don't   
worry about that, Angie, you won't go walking."  
  
Angel arched his brow even more, but said nothing.  
  
Turning his back on him, Xander walked out of the lab with a decided step,   
his eyes hard and his spirit heavy but resolute. Almost carelessly holding   
his sheathed katana in his left hand, the young vampire pushed the hilt   
with his thumb and looked at the few exposed inches of dark gray metal,   
seeing the reflection of his own dark eyes on it.  
  
A ray of light ran into the sharp edge, making it shine, and the look of   
his eyes flashed gold for a brief moment.  
  
Xander fully sheathed the Akani-Kawa with decision and kept on walking,   
getting into the rusty elevator. "And now," he whispered to himself as he   
pushed the button to the garage level, "it's time to pay the rent."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
It was barely three minutes later that Spike and Angel climbed down the   
stairs leading to the sewers, the bleached-hair vampire taking a hold of   
the side-bars and sliding down them in a very Hollywood-like style.  
  
"What did Xander mean by 'not go walking'?" the older vampire asked his   
childe, following him in a more orthodox way and just jumping down the   
last ten steps.  
  
Smiling sideways in much the same way that Xander had done, Spike walked   
to one of the piles of garbage that seemed to grow up spontaneously in the   
ancient bowels of the sewer system. Quickly removing the cardboard boxes   
that hid it, he uncovered a more shapely bulk covered by an ample and   
greasy blanket.  
"I think he meant this," Spike said, taking the cloth away like a magician   
revealing a trick. Under the blanket there was a green and white   
cross-country bike, a Kawasaki KX250, equipped with thick off-road tires.  
  
The bleached-hair vampire jumped on the seat and kicked the kickstarter   
lever, starting the engine and filling the relatively small space of the   
sewer with the rattling sound of the engine.  
  
Plus a thick cloud of poisoning and awful-smelling smoke, as he revved the   
engine a couple of times. "What are ya waitin' for, mate?" he asked Angel   
over his shoulder. "We don't 'ave all day."  
  
Eyeing his childe suspiciously, the souled vampire got onto the seat   
behind him, carefully holding onto his waist. "Are you sure you know how   
to ride this thing?"  
  
Spike snorted with a new, twisted smile. "You just watch me, Angelus. Oh!"   
he added as an afterthought, as the bike started to gain speed along the   
narrow tunnel, "and watch out where you put those hands, ya hear me,   
mate?"  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
The steel roller-door of the warehouse curled up around its slightly rusty   
axis, but the noise produced by that action was covered by the roar of the   
powerful engines, as Xander and Rachel came out of the garage on their   
respective bikes.  
  
They were followed by Kyle and Crystal in the tall Texan's cherry-red   
Pathfinder, and departed from the building in a cloud of burnt rubber and   
smoke, quickly gaining speed along the street and leaving the steel   
roller-door slowly moving down behind them.  
  
So fast did they leave, and such was the state they were in, that none of   
them noticed the two men that quickly came out of the shadows of one of   
the nearby alleys and walked to the entrance of the warehouse. Their dark   
clothes made them practically invisible in the dim twilight.  
  
One of them, a black man tall and big enough to be mistaken for a brick   
house, surveyed their surroundings with a hand under his jacket. His   
companion, a way shorter man with brown hair and tiny round spectacles,   
took out an electric screwdriver from one of the interior pockets of his   
own jacket.  
  
He then unscrewed the control panel of the door, exposing its electronic   
insides.  
  
"Hmm, fifty seconds and counting," the mercenary called Beast told his   
companion, checking his watch. "You're getting old, Chip."  
  
The shorter man sent him a sideways look full of hostility, and used a   
tiny Swiss-army pocket knife to cut two wires of the system and then   
attached them to a small electronic device the took out from the seemingly   
bottomless interior of his jacket.  
  
Activating the device, a series of tiny red lights began to switch on one   
by one, forming a small row on the black plastic surface of the device as   
it went over all the possible combinations of the door's lock. The last of   
the lights, a green one, lighted up and immediately, the door by the steel   
roller-door opened by itself.  
  
"Aaand here we go-oh!" Chip announced with a singsong voice.  
  
Beast brought the small microphone inside the sleeve of his jacket to his   
lips, and spoke loud and clear as he followed his companion into the   
warehouse, walking backwards. "Intruder team here, we're in."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
"Me cago en la puta, joder!!" Santero screamed in pain at the top of his   
lungs when Havoc poured a good measure of disinfectant on the wound of his   
tight. "Vampires, magic, creatures of darkness... la puta, I knew all   
along this was a bad idea! Hey, that hurts!!"  
  
"Be quiet," the Scandinavian man growled at him with annoyance, his   
accented voice thickened by the twang produced because of the tampons on   
his nose. "And you," he added, turning around to look at Backlash, who was   
driving the black Humvee, "couldn't you drive a little slower?"  
  
"No! I want to end this ASAP!!" the Australian man hissed through his   
broken teeth, spitting a new mixture of blood and saliva out of the open   
window. He shook his head in incredulity and rage. "A brunette in a   
miniskirt, bloody unbelievable."  
  
Beside him, in the passenger's seat, Conrad Swann couldn't help but   
chuckle softly under his breath, sending a sideways look to the mercenary   
at his side. "I don't want to say 'I told you so', but..."  
  
As he took a closed curve at top speed with the huge Humvee, making   
everybody inside it take a hold onto something not to fall, Backlash eyed   
the sleeping form of Giles on the back seat through the rearview mirror.  
  
"We should wake him up and make him answer some questions," he said, "I   
don't want to drag this out any longer than necessary."  
  
Leaving Santero to bandage his wound by himself, Havoc turned around on   
the back seat and grabbed Giles by the lapels of his tweed jacket,   
straightening him up on the seat.  
  
"Is there any special trick to waking him up?" he asked the warlock over   
his shoulder.  
  
Swann shrugged with disinterest. "Just the usual."  
  
"Good, I'm going to enjoy this," the large Scandinavian man said with a   
smile. Then, bringing his hand back, he slapped the sleeping British man   
hard across the face, violently twisting his head to one side.  
  
Giles came back to his senses with a moan of pain, automatically tying to   
raise his hands to protect his eyes from the sudden light invading them,   
only to discover that he was handcuffed with his hands retained behind his   
back.  
  
"What the hell?" he groaned, struggling to get away from the large man's   
grasp on his jacket, his mind filling with the images of the fight and   
with the worry for his young protégés. "Let me go, you bastard!"  
  
Raising a cool blond eyebrow, Havoc slapped him again, this time with the   
back of his hand, and then punched him in the gut, effectively rendering   
the British man speechless and making him bend over as a painful wave of   
nausea ran through his body.  
  
Grabbing him by the hair at the back of his head, Havoc jerked Giles' head   
up and leaned the muzzle of his gun right on the bridge of his shattered   
and tattered spectacles.  
  
"It's me who asks the questions and gives the orders here – is that clear,   
old man?" he menaced him, roughly pushing the Desert Eagle against his   
skin. "Now, where's the artifact?"  
  
"Crystal clear," the Watcher said with a hard stare of hostility and a   
challenging expression on his face, "and you can find it shoved up your   
arsehole, you pillock."  
  
"This one thinks he's very smart," the Scandinavian man told Santero over   
Giles' shoulder, "why don't you show him who is the one ruling inside   
here, compadre?"  
  
"Será un placer." Santero grabbed the little finger of the Watcher's left   
hand and twisted it violently, breaking it.  
  
At first, Giles couldn't help but to let out a small scream at the sudden   
pain that travelled throughout his whole arm – but he promptly bit his   
lower lip to silence himself, turning it into a muffled moan.  
  
"You have nine fingers more," Havoc told him, yanking at his hair once   
more so the British man would be looking up at his face. "Does anyone want   
to bet on the number of them we'll have to break?"  
  
"I-I'll put five bucks on my side," Giles panted, clenching his teeth not   
to shout when Santero squeezed his broken finger.  
  
Sighing, Swann turned around on his seat. With an expression of near   
boredom, he took a thin cigarette-holder made of jade and carefully   
adjusted a Gauloises on its point, before bringing it to his lips and   
lighting it.  
  
"Look, Mr. Giles, we can either do this the easy way or the hard way," he   
told him patiently, as if he was explaining it to a retarded child.  
  
He continued, "The easy way, you just tell us where you keep what we're   
searching for, we get it and everybody's happy. Now, the hard way implies   
lots of pain for you coming from these... gentlemen, and a loss of time   
for us that I'm not inclined to tolerate. What's it going to be, Mr.   
Giles?"  
  
As a response, the mature and self-centered British Watcher spat at him   
full in the face, his spittle landing straight on his only blue eye.  
  
Letting out a sigh, and pointedly ignoring the chuckles and amused stares   
of the three mercenaries, Swann took a linen handkerchief from the breast   
pocket of his jacket and neatly wiped the saliva running down his cheek.   
  
"I'll take that as a no to cooperate," he said with resignation. "I guess   
we'll have to resort to the hard way."  
  
Reaching out with his arm over the back of the seat and as the two   
mercenaries sat at both sides of Giles grabbed him roughly by the elbows,   
pushing him forward, the warlock took off his spectacles and placed his   
open hand on the Watcher's face. "Everything that is yours is mine,   
everything that you know I know, there are no secrets, no barriers, no   
lies..."  
  
"No! Let me go, bastards!" Giles shouted in panic, recognizing the spell   
and struggling in the mercenaries' strong grasp to get free, kicking and   
shaking like a madman.  
  
It didn't help as the skin of the warlock's hands suddenly felt like fire   
against his face, hot enough to make the flesh of his face boil and melt,   
allowing his long, nail-polished fingers to dig inside his head and right   
into his brain.  
  
Giles heard himself screaming and crying in the distance, but it was as if   
it was coming from another man's throat, one that was very, very far away   
from him.  
  
He was blind and almost deaf, and the only sensations that he was able to   
perceive was an absolute, almost overwhelming pain as if he was being   
exposed to an electric current, as if every nervous ending of his body was   
on fire...   
  
And then images, scenes of his own life flashing in front of his blind   
eyes in a mad and chaotic slide-show. Faster. And faster.  
  
His father, the silent and distant Watcher when he was a child. His   
college years. Ethan Rayne. Eyghon. Buffy. Jenny Calendar. Eyghon and   
Ethan again. Angelus. Xander's death. Joyce. The return of Xander and the   
Archangels...   
  
He tried to block them, to make them stop, to hide his memories behind a   
wall so thick that the long and viscous, tentacle-like fingers of the   
warlock wouldn't be able to reach out for them, but nothing could stand   
against them.  
  
They were so hard, so strong that they made all the walls crumble down on   
their way, reaching into the core of his memories, of his soul, of that   
which made him what he was...   
  
And then, after he had seen and taken what he wanted from him, Swann   
released his grasp on him and Giles began to fall, and fall, and fall into   
a dark and bottomless pit, screaming like a madman, crying like a child   
for an eternity.  
  
If the two bulky mercenaries hadn't been holding him, the British Watcher   
would have slumped to the floor into a shapeless ball. They just allowed   
him to fold over and rest with his head between his knees, as a wave of   
nausea so powerful that made him taste his own bile rocked his whole body.  
  
He panted as if he had run a marathon and was drenched in a sweat so cold   
that it felt like ice on his feverish skin. "Bastards," was the only thing   
he was able to say as he fought to regain his breath.  
  
"Well?" Havoc inquired with an incredulous look on his cold blue eyes   
directed to the one-eyed warlock. "Have the spirits given you any sign?"  
  
Swann retrieved his handkerchief and slow and methodically cleaned his   
palm of Giles' perspiration, a thin blue cloud coming out of his nostrils   
as he exhaled the smoke of his cigarette. "Evergreen Apartments, please   
Mr. Backlash," he told the Australian mercenary, making a point of   
ignoring the tall Scandinavian one.  
  
"The artifact is in Mr. Giles' home, in a vault hidden behind a copy of a   
Modigliani's painting in his bedroom. The combination for the lock is   
formed by the days of his birthday, his girlfriend's and his protégé's,   
20-30-19."  
  
He sent a sideways and superior look towards Havoc, the right corner of   
his mouth rising in a self-satisfied smile. "The spirits have spoken."  
  
"I said it before and I'll say it again," Backlash whispered with a deep   
tone of sarcasm, "bloody unbelievable."  
  
Shaking his head in wonder, he stepped on the gas, accelerating to a speed   
over the legal limit and dodging the cars around the Humvee like a massive   
football linebacker as he passed the walkie-talkie from the dashboard to   
Santero.  
  
"Daddy Goose, Daddy Goose, Receptor Team here, do you read me?" the   
Hispanic mercenary said, unfolding a map and searching the location of   
Giles' apartment on it.  
  
"Daddy Goose here, Receptor Team, we read you five by five," Chopper's   
voice came out of the speaker.  
  
"We are moving to new point of destination, coordinates are 31, 12 on   
point 4B on the map," he read from the map. "Do you copy that, Chopper?"  
  
"Affirmative, Receptor Team, three-one-one-two-four-beta, is my   
information correct?"  
  
"Affirmative, Daddy Goose," Santero said, looking outside the window and   
trying to locate the helicopter on the darkening sky of the evening, only   
being able to see a shadowy spot high above. "It's getting dark, will you   
be able to follow us?"  
  
"Don't worry about that," Chopper informed him through the speaker as he   
took a look to the different consoles and screens in front and around him,   
"the beacon light is shining bright and clear on my panel. Wherever you   
go, I'll be right on top of you."  
  
"Reassuring idea," Havoc growled with a twisted smile.  
  
Ignoring him, Santero took a short look at the handcuffed middle-aged man   
beside him and then through the rear window, biting his lower lip. "We're   
going to need reinforcements," he said to the walkie-talkie.  
  
There was a moment of silence until Chopper's voice came again, this time   
with a deep tone of shocked incredulity.  
  
"Did I hear right?" he asked with a snort of laughter. "Did you say   
reinforcements?"  
  
The Hispanic mercenary just looked at the speaker with annoyance. "Yes,   
you heard right and I said reinforcements. Now shut your smart mouth and   
just do it, OK!?!"  
  
"Roger that, Santero," the pilot said sternly. "Over and out, Receptor   
Team."  
  
Without bothering to answer him, the Hispanic mercenary just switched off   
the walkie-talkie and put it inside his jacket. Then he saw the inquiring   
stares of his partners directed at him.  
  
"What?" Santero asked with resignation, looking straight at Havoc.  
  
The large Scandinavian man just sighed and shook his head. "They're going   
to think that we're a bunch of wussies, hermanito, and I don't want to be   
the laughing stock of the group for the rest of the month. I know that   
things got pretty weird back there," he conceded before his Hispanic   
teammate could protest, "but that's over, OK? We won."  
  
Santero shook his head and looked outside at the darkening urban scenery.   
Then he took out his Beretta 92FS Brigadier from under his jacket and   
brought back its slide, checking the chamber. "I still have a bad hunch   
about this."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
The nose of the Honda barely eluded the back bumper of a rusty Chevy   
pick-up by a narrow inch. It made Oz take a hold on his seat and dig his   
claws into the carpeting, so as not to be launched outside through the   
door-hole by the brunette's violent handling of the car.  
  
She sped up even more, getting ahead of the Chevy by its right side and   
receiving a loud series of honks from the annoyed driver of the pick-up.  
  
Whining, and holding onto the seat for dear life, the young werewolf took   
a look through the rear window to check that they hadn't caused an   
accident. Then he looked at Cordelia, with a mildly scared expression on   
his face.  
  
"I don't know what surprises me the most," he said with trembling voice,   
"that we're still alive after that, or that we don't have a column of   
police cars chasing us. I thought that hijacking a car was still a crime   
in this part of the country."  
  
"Hey, don't distract me while I'm driving," the brunette warned him,   
speaking loud enough to be heard over the howl of the wind getting into   
the Honda by the hole produced by the ripped-off door.  
  
She kept her half-closed hazel eyes fixed on the dark spot of the Humvee,   
now separated from them by a group of six cars. "And that wasn't a crime,   
it was a case of extreme need."  
  
"You say potato... don't get closer or they'll see us," Oz advised her,   
"we should try to pass unnoticed."  
  
Cordelia arched her brow with mild amusement, daring to take her eyes off   
of the road for a second to look at him. "We're driving at top speed in a   
stolen car that has a missing door, and you want to pass unnoticed?"  
  
She shook her head and spun violently the steering wheel to take a closed   
curve, slamming on the brakes before accelerating again, making the Honda   
skid laterally like a professional driver and barely avoiding to crash   
against a Volvo station-wagon before regaining a more stable cruise. "Wow,   
that was close."  
  
Oz just gave her a grim look, before double-checking the tightness of his   
seat-belt.  
  
"Hey, how were Willow and Buffy?" the brunette asked, feeling a little   
uncomfortable and guilty for having left both of her friends in such a   
state. She told herself that she hadn't had other option, that Buffy would   
get well and Willow hadn't looked really bad.  
  
But still, every time she dared to close her eyes, all she saw was the   
Slayer lying in a pool of her own blood, and the heavy shelf falling on   
the red-haired teen witch's petite body.  
  
Oz let out a sigh, that sounded extremely painful. "Wills was alright, or   
at least that was what she insisted on. Buffy still hadn't..." Shaking his   
head, he fought to find a suitable word to express the idea; on account of   
'resurrected' was something he just couldn't say, because it implied that   
Buffy had died and he didn't want to think about that. "...woken up. Truth   
is, I don't know, this is all like completely crazy."  
  
She looked at his friend out of the corner of her eye and nodded softly in   
agreement, before turning her eyes back to the road and the chase at hand.  
  
"This'd be easier if we had some idea of where they're going," Cordelia   
commented, slowing the speed to keep five cars between them and the object   
of their chase.  
  
"Giles' apartment," the young werewolf said succinctly. "They're going to   
Giles' apartment, or at least there's where they'll end up eventually."  
  
The brunette blinked repeatedly in surprise and then frowned, confused.   
"How do you know that?"  
  
Oz took out the small and folded piece of paper he had found on the floor   
of Giles' store, and offered it to Cordelia. "Because if this is what   
they're looking for, Giles keeps it in the safe in his apartment, like he   
does with all his important things."  
  
Cordelia took the paper and, carefully handling the car only with a hand,   
took a fast look at what was written on it.  
  
"This has got to be some kind of joke..." she whispered, a cold shiver   
running along the whole length of her backbone. Oz said nothing, limiting   
his actions to a cool stare and the arching of an still-red eyebrow.  
  
Cordelia looked back at him and sighed, returning her hand to the steering   
wheel and clenching it tightly. In front of them, the black Humvee started   
to gain speed and the distance between them grew exponentially with each   
passing second.  
  
"Shit," she groaned, "I just can't believe it. What we do now?"   
  
Oz took a look outside the car, and quickly placed them in the virtual map   
of Sunnydale he had inside his mind. "Next street is a shortcut," he told   
his taller friend, "turn the corner and we'll arrive a couple of minutes   
ahead of them."  
  
Half-closing her eyes and getting ready to turn, the brunette let out a   
wicked smile. "Next exit is an one-way street," she alerted Oz.  
  
The young werewolf sighed and nodded, before returning the smile. "We're   
going one way, aren't we?"  
  
Without losing either the smile or the wicked expression on her face,   
Cordelia switched on the turn signal. Just a couple of yards before   
reaching the turn, she slammed on the breaks and spun the wheel with no   
indecision.  
  
The Honda's tires protested, screeching against the road; and when she   
stepped on the gas again they skidded madly over the rough asphalt,   
launching the white car in the middle of a thick gray cloud of burnt   
rubber. They headed practically straight for a massive Ford, that was   
coming in the opposite direction.  
  
"Watch out!" Oz shouted as the brunette dodged the upcoming vehicle,   
getting out of its way just by the width of a hair. "Shit, we can't go   
this way, the traffic is too intense!"  
  
"No," she shook her head, "the traffic is just fine."  
  
Cordelia turned again, this time avoiding a Chrysler and, stepping down on   
the gas, directed the car to the left side of the road. She made it jump   
over the curb, the left wheels on the sidewalk and the right ones staying   
on the road.  
  
Shaking her head, she started to honk like a madwoman, warning the   
pedestrians.   
  
"Come on!" she yelled, making herself heard even over the roar of the   
engine, "Get outta my way!!"  
  
When her action was received by loud honks from other drivers and insults   
plus menacing fists from the passerby's, Cordelia shook her head and   
frowned with incredulity. "Hey, this is an emergency!!"  
  
"Uh, Cordy?" Oz called her attention.  
  
"Yeah?" she asked, as the nose of the car slammed against a group of trash   
cans and the man that had uneventfully been taking out the trash jumped   
back not to be run over.  
  
"The street..." he said, pointing with a shaken finger through the   
windshield. "...it's ending. You have to turn right."  
  
"But Giles' block is at the other side of that line of houses, isn't it?"   
she asked, raising a cool eyebrow and indicating towards the line of   
terrace houses in front of them, which were starting to be dangerously   
close.  
  
"Yeah," Oz nodded, digging into the dashboard with his claws, "but there's   
no direct access, we have to go round the block."  
  
Cordelia just smiled. "Oz, do you know what's the best thing about driving   
a stolen car?" The young werewolf just shook his head, fearing the answer.   
"That it's not yours."  
  
The brunette slammed down the gas pedal to its limits. As she let out a   
scream of exaltation and her blue-haired companion one of panic, Cordelia   
made the car reach its maximum speed and crashed against the white fence   
of the house in front of them, making broken pickets fly in every   
direction.  
  
She quickly drove the Honda into the garden, with the tires leaving twin   
brown lines on the grass.  
  
Spinning the wheel violently, the brunette young woman eluded a couple of   
kids that were playing with a skinny greyhound on the garden and ran over   
a barbecue, not hitting the man cooking on it almost by miracle.   
Hamburgers and sausages flew into the air.  
  
The cook, a bald man with a serious weight problem, looked in astonishment   
as the white Honda smashed his barbecue away. Still holding the large fork   
he had been using to check the state of the frying food, he just kept on   
staring as the car crossed the complete length of his garden.  
  
It left twin muddy tire-marks on the ruined grass before crashing against   
the back fence, and disappearing with a roar and a screech of punished   
tires when it got back onto the road.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
The huge Afro-American mercenary took a look around as his companion and   
himself climbed up the stairs on the garage level of the Archangels'   
warehouse, and got into the residential and operations level on the second   
floor.  
  
He couldn't help but to let out a long whistle of admiration. "These   
people have a nice place here, I wouldn't mind getting something like this   
myself."  
  
"You would drive yourself crazy in two days," Chip told him over his   
shoulder as he made a beeline towards the lab and computer area. "Face it,   
Beast, you need the atmosphere of a military camp, the smell of wet mud   
and dirty socks and spending the night in a sleeping bag to feel alive."  
  
"That illustrates how little you know me, pal, I'm a man of select   
tastes," the larger man said, taking a new and cautious look around as he   
frowned and passed a hand over his bald head. As his partner sat down in   
front of the main computer and booted it up, Beast would have sworn that   
he had seen, almost felt, something moving out of the corner of his eye.   
"Did you hear anything?"  
  
Frowning and without taking his spectacle-covered eyes from the screen,   
Chip shook his head. "Nope, but you shouldn't worry, we saw them all going   
out."  
  
Beast half-closed his eyes and shook his head as he bit his lower lip   
pensively. Then, he took out his semi-automatic handgun from under his   
jacket and checked that the silencer attached to its muzzle was correctly   
placed, and that there was a bullet already loaded in the chamber. "Think   
I'll take a good look around, anyway."  
  
"Suit yourself," the hacker said absent-mindedly, his whole attention   
concentrated on the data running down the screen and his fingers clicking   
on the keyboard as he started to dodge the virtual traps and dead-ends in   
the computer system.  
  
"Hmmm," he whispered to himself with a smile of admiration,   
"fascinating..."  
  
Wielding his pistol in his right hand, Beast moved slowly out of the lab   
and then trough the rest and recreation areas with a smoothness and   
silence that belied his large and apparently graceless figure, checking   
every nook and corner that would be suitable to hide any threat. He was   
sure he had seen and heard something...   
  
There it was again, a dark bulk moving, an obscure ghost right at the end   
of his range of vision, so fast and smooth that it was practically greased   
lightning. Beast turned around in a flash, his index tensed on the trigger   
of his Beretta, ready to open fire.  
  
Nothing.  
  
"What the hell...?" he whispered, lowering the gun and frowning with   
puzzlement.  
  
And then an unnerving growl, low and menacing, was heard right behind his   
back and the large mercenary turned around slowly, as he looked over his   
shoulder with his eyebrows arched in surprise.  
  
The dog, an impossibly large German shepherd with brown and black hair and   
shiny brown eyes, was on his hind legs, his spongy long tongue sticking   
out of the corner of his mouth as his chest rose and fell rhythmically   
with his panting.  
  
When the animal saw that the human was finally looking straight at him, he   
licked his lips and snout and stood up, resuming his menacing growl as he   
arched his upper lip, baring his long and sharp canines.  
  
"Doggie, good doggie..." Beast whispered to him in what he hoped was a   
non-threatening tone, as he completed his turn and moved his gun to aim at   
him, trying not to make any brisk movements that the animal would consider   
a menace. "You're a good doggie, aren't you? You're not going to harm to   
your friend Be-"  
  
Even before the mercenary could complete the sentence, Elvis moved with a   
speed that seemed impossible in an animal so large, his powerful legs   
launching him up and ahead as his snout opened with a thundering roar,   
spraying foam and saliva everywhere.  
  
Beast could only scream in pain when the German shepherd's powerful jaws   
closed around his right forearm, and his sharp fangs dug through the thick   
fabric of his jacket, until they reached the flesh of his arm and drew   
blood.  
  
The pain was so intense that the mercenary couldn't help but let the   
pistol slip away from his hand, as he fell down under the force of the   
impact and the weight of the dog's body.  
  
He struggled with the enraged dog, grasping a handful of the large hair   
and loose flesh at the back of his powerful neck. He yanked at it with all   
the strength of his massive muscles, grunting with the effort, the sounds   
mixed with the dog's hostile growls; but it seemed that the animal had a   
deadlock on his flesh, and his teeth refused to lose their grasp on his   
arm.  
  
Far from it, as Elvis dealt with the intruder human. He was tearing at the   
clothes with the hard nails of his paws, rasping and scratching his dark   
skin. The pressure of his jaw seemed to grow exponentially, and his sharp   
canines ripped the tender flesh of his forearm, almost reaching the bone.  
  
"Aaaargh!!" Beast screamed, laboriously managing to roll the dog off of   
his body, but never succeeding in freeing his arm from his foaming jaws.  
  
"Chip!! Help!!" he called his partner as he patted the floor with his free   
hand, trying to retrieve the lost handgun.  
  
The shorter man came out quickly from the lab, already raising his own   
weapon and aiming at the dog with it. Elvis noticed the movement near them   
and his current prey. The tone of his growl changed from one of rage to   
one of annoyance, as he freed the black man's arm and quickly turned away,   
getting out of the second man's line of fire and hiding behind a stuffed   
couch.  
  
Barely able to follow the dog's moving figure, Chip fired twice with his   
Beretta M92 against him, the sound of his gunshots extinguished by the   
long silencer attached to gun's muzzle.  
  
The bullets impacted against the corner of the couch and a little of its   
stuffing rained down to the floor as the mercenary hacker started to   
circle the piece of furniture, half-closing his eyes so he could see   
better in the dim light of the warehouse's interior. Beside him, Beast   
retrieved his pistol.  
  
Wielding it in his good hand, he stumbled to his feet, covering his   
partner.  
  
"Be careful," he warned Chip through lips clenched in pain, "that's not a   
normal dog."  
  
"What do you mean?" the shorter man asked, licking his lips. "A stupid dog   
is just a stupid dog."  
  
Beast looked at him as if he was the stupid one. "Have you ever seen a dog   
before that can recognize a gun, and know that he has to let his prey go   
to take cover from it?" Chip frowned, and shook his head. "Dogs only do   
that kind of thing in the movies."  
  
"To the hell with that," the hacker growled as he got ready to surround   
the couch, "in a second he'll be just a..."  
  
"What?" Beast asked, following him behind the couch. Chip didn't answer   
him, but he didn't need to. The dog had disappeared. "I'm starting to have   
a bad feeling about this."  
  
The hacker sighed and lowered his gun, as he took a short look around.   
"What you're starting to do is sound like Santero, and I've had enough of   
his paranoid stupidities."  
  
Beast sighed and, after fulminating him with his eyes, checked the wound   
of his arm. "Shit," he grunted as he searched again for the dog with his   
eyes, "I'm going to need stitches here. How much time do you still need?"  
  
"Well, I have to finish the last traps, I got their main channels under   
control and the system's already hacked," the hacker said, leaving his   
companion with a blank and clueless expression.  
  
"Just give me five minutes and we can get out – that's if you've finished   
crying like a little girl, of course," Chip added with an irritating   
smile.  
  
"Just do it and leave everything ready," the black mercenary growled at   
his companion, "I'll search for that darn dog, meanwhile."  
  
As he walked back to the lab, Chip couldn't help but give him a new   
twisted smile. "Try not to let him bite your ass again, OK? I can't be   
running back and forth to save you all the time."  
  
Beast didn't answer him, he just glared at the retreating back and turned   
around, his wounded arm tightly pressed against his abdomen as he wielded   
the pistol with the other.  
  
"Come on, doggie," he whispered softly, "come to Daddy and I'll give you a   
nice, big kiss... come on..."  
  
Hidden between the shadows of a corner at his back, Elvis didn't even let   
out the slightest of growls. He just followed the movements of the huge   
black man with his large brown eyes for a moment and, when this one   
disappeared from view into the darkness of the adjacent kitchen, got out   
from his hideout.  
  
He practically crawled with his chest glued to the floor, and in a   
complete silence.  
  
As fast as his awkward way of moving allowed him to do, the large German   
shepherd crossed the whole width of the warehouse. He used every nook,   
corner and shadow produced by the furniture to move as stealthily as   
possible, until he finally reached the twisted staircase leading to the   
first level and quickly climbed it down to the garage.  
  
Human were so stupid, that he sometimes found it utterly incredible that   
the species had managed to last this long without becoming extinct. They   
always saw what they wanted to see, and believed what they wanted to   
believe.  
  
'A stupid dog is just a stupid dog', the man with the spectacles had said.  
  
Stupid dog? If they only knew...   
  
But he couldn't complain, this way they talked in front of him, seeing   
nothing more than a stupid four-legged animal, and talked and talked, and   
talked... and he was always there, listening.  
  
And they had the guts to call themselves the 'lords of creation'? Ha!   
Laughable, but what else could be expected from a bunch of hairless   
overevolved monkeys?  
  
As he finally reached the end of the stairs, he thought that at least he   
could be thankful for having found a group of humans to live with that   
could be considered mildly intelligent beings (even Spike).  
  
Elvis trotted quickly to the fuse box placed on one of the walls, near the   
remains of what supposedly was Cordelia's Beetle. Leaning his front paws   
on the wall, he stood up on his hind legs until he was tall enough to grab   
the lever of the circuit breaker with his jaws.  
  
=So, they're doing something with the guys' computers, huh?= he thought,   
doggishly smiling around the lever filling his mouth. =Well then, this   
should give them a run for their money.=  
  
With a growl of satisfaction, Elvis yanked at the lever, pulling it down.   
A snap was heard, followed by the unmistakable hissing sound of the energy   
leaving an electric system, and all over the warehouse everything turned   
pitch black and silent like a tomb.  
  
Opening his jaws and letting the lever go, Elvis allowed himself to fall   
down to his four paws. His snout broke out into a wicked, almost evil   
smile, as his fat and wet tongue darted out to lick the twin rows of   
ivory-white sharp canines in his mouth, a low growl escaping his lips.  
  
He had little time before the secondary generator kicked in with the   
emergency power, but he knew it would be more than enough to do what he   
intended.  
  
The hunting season was now open.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Backlash parked the black military vehicle in front of Giles' apartment   
complex and killed the engine, taking a look at the building through the   
window as he leaned his hands on the steering wheel. "Well, are we going   
to wait for those reinforcements or what?"  
  
Taking a look at the deserted street, Santero shook his head in denial.   
"No, you will wait for them. We'll go into the place and retrieve the   
item."  
  
"Hopefully without further complications," Swann observed with a lopsided   
smile and a sideways look of amusement. "Although who knows, you may   
stumble upon a group of heavily armed school-girls."  
  
The Hispanic mercenary glared at him with his dark eyes, but the one-eyed   
sorcerer just shook his head and took a new drag from his cigarette,   
delicately holding the mouth-piece between his thumb and index finger as   
he opened the door and got out of the vehicle.  
  
He made a sign towards Havoc, and his partner took Giles by the handcuffs   
binding his wrists behind his back, roughly making him get out of the   
Humvee as the British man grunted and moaned in pain and protest.  
  
"If they haven't come in 15 minutes, call Chopper and request updated   
info," Santero told Backlash as he checked his wristwatch. "If we haven't   
come out in twenty, send a red-signal."  
  
The Australian mercenary snorted with barely concealed lack of amusement,   
shaking his head. "If the Colonel learns about this..."  
  
"The Colonel warned us precisely about this!" Santero roared, hating his   
partners' questioning and mocking attitude.  
  
"A brunette in a miniskirt, a skinny blonde, a petite redhead and a   
tweed-clad old man – and we've barely gotten here intact! Now, if you   
think that's a professional way of doing things, I would love for you to   
tell me how things could be fucked up, gentlemen!"  
  
He gave a short, yet intense look at his two comrades and neither Backlash   
nor Havoc could help but to look away from him, almost in shame. "We'll do   
the rest of this phase by the book – fast, clean and without any more   
problems."  
  
"And you," he added, pointing at Giles' face with his index finger,   
"you're going to do exactly what we tell you to do, or I'll personally put   
a bullet into your brain after blowing off each one of your fingers. Am I   
understood?"  
  
"I understand you perfectly..." The British Watcher forced a tight smile   
to hide the electric pain that ran through his sore wrists, when the tall   
Scandinavian man tugged at his bindings.  
  
He looked straight at the Hispanic mercenary, with his green eyes blazing   
with defiant fire. "But let me warn you about this. You don't have the   
slightest idea of what kind of forces you're messing with."  
  
Santero raised a cool eyebrow. "Is that a threat?"  
  
Giles could only shake his head and give him a hard stare, before Havoc   
started to drag him away. "It's free advice, and you'd do well to follow   
it."  
  
The Hispanic mercenary shook his head and gave a last look to his   
Australian partner, who was still sitting behind the steering wheel as   
ordered. "Do what I told you, and keep your eyes open."  
  
Backlash nodded with a patent lack of amusement and, as he finally saw his   
two partners, the one-eyed warlock and their tweed-clad captive   
disappearing into the apartment complex, he couldn't help but to shake his   
head and curse under his breath with barely suppressed rage.  
  
"A bloody brunette in a bloody miniskirt, goddamn unbelievable," he   
growled to himself as he roughly twisted the driver's side rear view   
mirror so it would reflect his own image.  
  
Then, raising his upper lip and grimacing in pain at the soreness of his   
bloodshot flesh, he traced the broken line of his teeth with his index   
finger's fingertip, checking that he had lost two teeth completely and had   
at least two more broken beyond repair.  
  
He shook his head, still unable to believe it. "A bloody brunette is going   
to cost me 500 bucks at the dentist, mate." He cursed again, and had to   
make an effort not to smash the surface of the small mirror with his fist.  
  
Instead, he started to straighten it, continually cursing and grunting   
under his breath. "When I get my hands on her, I'm going to teach that   
bloody bitch not to mess with Backlash. Oh yeah, I'm gonna get her and   
show her what a real man is..."  
  
He finished straightening the mirror and, as he did it and took a look at   
its reflecting surface, he found the face of the object of his thoughts   
filling it completely, a cold raven-black eyebrow risen up and a small,   
self-satisfied smile tugging at the corner of her beautiful lips.  
  
And, overlapped on her chin, the warning of the Motor Vehicle Department:   
'Caution: Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.'  
  
Astounded and with his lower jaw hanging loose, Backlash turned slowly   
around, facing her. Cordelia just let her smile grow into a sweet,   
understanding one.  
  
"I'll only say it once more," she addressed him patiently, "I'm getting   
really tired of being called that word. It's offensive, unkind and I don't   
like it at all."  
  
The Australian mercenary's right hand sunk into his jacket but, even   
before his fingertips had the chance to touch the butt of his gun,   
Cordelia raised the HK, which she had maintained hidden away from the   
man's sight.  
  
She slammed its stock against his face with all her strength, knocking the   
living daylights out of him. His figure fell against the dashboard,   
without him even having the chance to grunt a moan of pain.  
  
"And just for the record," the young brunette added as she put her slender   
right hand through the open window, and moved the man's jacket aside to   
retrieve his pistol from the holster under his arm. "I already know what a   
real man is, and you don't even reach the soles of his shoes."  
  
Then, without giving him one second more of her attention, she crossed the   
street to the secluded spot where Oz was waiting for her, crouched down   
behind a row of hedges near the building's entrance.  
  
When she reached him and knelt down beside his figure, the young werewolf   
just gave her a short and almost disinterested look out of the corner of   
his eye before settling his whole attention back on the stairs leading   
down towards the door of Giles' duplex apartment.  
  
"Did you have your share of fun?" he asked, with the slightest trace of   
annoyance in his voice.  
  
"I told you not to go gentleman on me, Oz," she said with a smile. "I can   
take care of myself."  
  
"Yeah, I've already noticed that," he growled, a smile finally breaking   
through his serious expression. "Still, you should have let me take care   
of that guy."  
  
Cordelia just sighed with boredom. "I already have a father, Oz. And then   
I have Xander... and Giles, Willow, Angel... Michael, Rachel, Kyle...   
couldn't you just be the one that doesn't try to protect me?"  
  
The young werewolf arched his brow and considered it for a second, before   
shaking his head. "I'm sorry, but no. I'm your friend, and that's what   
friends are supposedly for."  
  
She shook her head and smiled, her hazel eyes turning back to the   
apartment's door. "Any suggestions before we step into the lion's den?"  
  
"Yeah," he nodded, "you go in by the front door. I'll go round the   
building and climb up to one of the windows on the second floor, and get   
into the house that way. Giles has his safe in his bedroom, if I remember   
correctly."  
  
Nodding her head, Cordelia checked the state of her weapons. She had lost   
her own Glock 26 back at the bookstore, and her stolen submachine-gun had   
barely ten rounds remaining on its clip.  
  
=Well,= she thought, retrieving Backlash's Glock 19C from her waist and   
checking that there was a bullet loaded in the chamber, =at least I have a   
good backup.=  
  
"Oh, one more thing," Oz added at seeing her antics, "just try not to   
shoot me, OK? I've already tried it once, and I didn't like it all."  
  
As both of them stood up and started to walk to the building, Cordelia   
yanked at the HK's chamber and gave him a smug grin of superiority from   
the advantage of her superior height. "I'll see what I can do."  
  
Oz just shook his head, and rolled his golden eyes. "This gets better and   
better with each passing second," he growled with resignation.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
"Head down, Peaches!" Spike warned his sire, as he ducked down to avoid a   
low pipe crossing the whole width of the sewer tunnel.  
  
Angel followed his advice, and escaped from being beheaded just by a   
couple of inches. Holding onto the bleached-hair vampire's waist for dear   
life as he rode the off-road bike like a bucking bronco, the headlight   
cast strange games of lights and shadows on the wet and dirty walls of the   
sewer.  
  
The thick tires splattered the corrupted waters everywhere, and the sound   
of the compact but powerful engine reverberating along the narrow passage   
was like a deafening thunderstorm.  
  
At any other moment, the souled vampire thought he would have even enjoyed   
the wild ride as the bike jumped and advanced, apparently out of control   
under his childe's skillful hands.  
  
But now, with his mind and heart filled only with worry and dread for his   
loved one and the rest of his friends, he could only pray for it to end as   
soon as possible.   
  
=Buffy will be alright. She's a fighter, a survivor. She has to be   
alright.=  
  
Riding the white-green Kawasaki in front of his sire, Spike wasn't any   
less worried than him. He saw the nooks and corners of the narrow passage   
passing beside them in a flash.  
  
He thought that if he took just a little more of his attention from the   
handling of the bike to put it into the heart-breaking pain he was   
feeling, Angelus and himself were going to end up in a very painful   
explosion against one of the walls of the sewer.  
  
=Willow.= He thought back to the scene of the night before, to the moment   
in which he had been about to kiss her.  
  
To how sad and confused she had looked as he stormed off out of the   
bookstore, and to the tears that he had seen starting to roll down her   
cheeks when she had thought that he hadn't been looking anymore.  
  
Hell, he didn't want that image of her to be the last one he had. He   
wanted to see her laughing, smiling... living. He just didn't want her to   
be harmed. The mere idea of her dead was too painful even to consider.  
  
"We're arriving!" Angel exclaimed at his ear, tightening his grasp on his   
waist to call his attention. "Slow down!"  
  
Nodding sharply, Spike freed the accelerator and slammed on the brake with   
all his strength, blocking the rear wheel and making the bike slide for a   
couple of yards over the wet and muddy ground of the sewer.  
  
The off-road Kawasaki finally stopped right under the entrance below the   
bookstore, and Angel lost no time in getting down off of it.  
  
He started to climb up the ladder as his childe simply dismounted from the   
bike, not bothering to kill the engine or even set the kickstand. He just   
let it fall to the ground and followed Angel, his boot-clad feet splashing   
in the sticky pools of water.  
  
The soul-filled vampire reached the top of the ladder and then, holding   
only with one hand, used the other to pat his different pockets, searching   
for something.  
  
"What the bloody hell are ya doin'?" Spike asked with a high-pitched tone   
of annoyance, as he climbed up behind him.  
  
"What do you think that I'm doing?" the souled vampire exclaimed in the   
same nervous and hurried tone. "I'm searching for the damn keys!"  
  
Spike growled, shaking his head with incredulity. "Forget about that and   
just open the bloody door!!"  
  
Stifling a curse, Angel decided to follow his childe's advice and punched   
the metallic trapdoor with all his unnatural strength, just by the lock,   
making it burst open upwards before falling down again while the broken   
padlock flew madly away.  
  
Ignoring the pain in his hand, Angel raised it to stop the fall of the   
door and opened it completely, quickly climbing up the rest of stairs and   
entering into the back room of the bookstore, just beside the werewolf's   
empty cage.  
  
"What the hell..." he whispered, when he finally saw the absolute state of   
chaos that reigned in the room.  
  
The fallen and broken furniture, the bullet-holes in the walls... and the   
smell of the blood mixed with the burnt cordite, making the demon stir   
inside him with a silent roar of savage lust. "Buffy!!!"  
  
Following him out of the sewer, Spike thought that he had never heard so   
much pain and sorrow in anyone's voice as he heard it coming out Angel's   
throat at that moment. He spotted the broken form of the blonde Slayer   
lying on the floor, in the middle of a sticky pool formed by her own   
blood.  
  
It was a pure, unadulterated cry of desperation as her name abandoned   
Angel's lips, carrying so much emotion with it that the bleached-hair   
vampire couldn't help but to stare with wide-open, sad eyes at Angel.  
  
The souled vampire crossed the distance between him and his fallen love   
with three long and smooth steps, jumping over the downed stalls and piles   
of books and fell to his knees, taking her still body into his arms.  
  
But then he spotted Willow, and it was as if something had torn him apart.  
  
Forgetting about Angel and his Slayer, forgetting about everything that   
wasn't the shapeless form of the petite redhead, he ran to her, an alien   
sensation taking form inside his cold belly.  
  
"Willow, no..." he whispered with a voice so full of worry and emotion   
that sounded strange, almost unrecognizable to his own ears.  
  
Spike fell on his knees at her side and, when he reached out for her body,   
he felt a burning pain engulfing his hands as a cloud of white steam   
emerged from them and he couldn't help but scream in pain.  
  
The dying light of the sun was entering through the broken window of the   
room, bathing Willow's prone form with a golden glow that seemed unreal,   
as if it was coming out from her.  
  
Biting his lower lips with his enlarged fangs, the bleached-hair vampire   
steeled himself and reached again for her, the sun's rays immediately   
burning his exposed skin where they touched him.  
  
Ignoring the pain, savagely biting his lip not to scream, Spike grabbed   
Willow by the fabric of her cardigan and yanked at it, dragging her away   
from the arch of light and into his arms.  
  
Panting and feeling his whole body drenched in cold sweat, the   
bleached-hair vampire closed his hands into fists as he held the young   
apprentice of Wicca's head in the crook of his left arm. The skin of his   
hands was burnt and broken, exposing his raw flesh, which was shining a   
ragging red color.  
  
Still, that pain was nothing compared with what he felt when he looked   
down at Willow's face and saw the traces of blood on her lips and the   
paleness of her whole complexion.  
  
"Oh, God, no," he growled as he searched for the pulse on her carotid and   
brought her lips and nose close to his cheek. And he found it, a pulse,   
weak and slow but still steady, and the faint caress of her breathing   
against the cold skin of his cheek.  
  
She was alive, thank God, she was alive. Spike felt a long smile cross his   
face and traced slowly her beautiful features with his healing fingertips.   
Then, as he rocked her, the bleached-hair vampire kissed her tenderly on   
the forehead, not even thinking on what he was doing.  
  
Not far away from them, completely oblivious to his childe and the young   
apprentice of Wicca, Angel held Buffy's lifeless form between his arms. He   
was softly rocking her, unable to hold back the blood-red tears that   
started to roll down his cheeks, staining them the same way that her loved   
one's blood stained his hands and the fabric of his coat.  
  
"Buffy, no..." he moaned painfully, gently smoothing the errant locks of   
golden hair away from her face and wiping the line of blood coming out the   
corner of her mouth with his thumb, only succeeding in smearing it across   
her cheek. "Come on, you have to come back to me, why don't you come back   
to me?"  
  
Darla had told him once, a long time ago, that love was the only thing   
that could bring down a vampire – that it was a weakness that none of them   
could afford, because it would mean their collective defeat in the end.  
  
So, his beautiful sire had taught him everything about desire and lust and   
wanting, but he'd had to wait to meet that petite, fragile-appearing   
blonde to know what real love was. And to learn, with all its painful   
thorns, how much truth had been in Darla's words.  
  
In the end, only Buffy's love would mean his defeat because, without her,   
there was no way he could keep on living.  
  
He was a hollow man without her.  
  
"Come on, Buffy, don't you remember what you said? That I would never get   
rid of you, no matter how much I wanted it?" he asked her with ragged   
voice, feeling suddenly and unreasonably angry with her for not waking up.  
  
"You have to come back, you have to keep your word. Come on, Slayer.   
Where's your hard spirit now? Where's the strong soul I fell in love   
with?" Biting his lower lip not to cry, Angel tightened his grasp on her,   
shaking her still body.  
  
"I never thought you were a coward, Slayer. Not even Angelus thought it.   
Never," he growled, grabbing her long blonde hair and placing a rough kiss   
on her forehead. "I know you aren't, so don't you even think you can fool   
me and make me believe you like to stay hidden. Just come back, Buffy.   
Come back to me!"  
  
As if on cue, Buffy's body suddenly jerked up in the souled vampire's   
arms, her back arching up almost to the point of rupturing as her lungs   
filled up with a ragged intake of breath. Her face distorted into a   
twisted grimace, that was a mix of pain and pleasure.  
  
"Mnrrghhh!!" she moaned incoherently, clenching her teeth together and   
trying not to scream at the top of her lungs, feeling that her whole being   
was being torn apart in a thousand different parts.  
  
Nevertheless, when her back reached its maximum point of flexibility and   
seemed about to break in two, the blonde Slayer couldn't help but to let   
out a long, deafening and shaking scream of pure pain.  
  
"Shit!!" she shouted, very unladylike. "That hurts!!"  
  
Never releasing her and pressing her body even tighter to his broad chest,   
Angel couldn't help but to start chuckling as he planted endless kisses on   
her forehead, temples, lips and generally wherever place of her face his   
mouth was able to reach.  
  
"That's good," he said, smoothing her blonde mane, "that means you're   
alive."  
  
Buffy closed her hazel eyes and shook her head in confusion as she gulped   
down with difficulty, trying to erase the foul taste of her mouth and the   
soreness on her throat.  
  
"Angel?" she called the souled vampire, gaining a nod and a soft smile   
from him as he wiped his blood tears from the corners of his eyes with the   
closed fist of his right hand. "Where-wha-what happened?"  
  
"You tell me," he whispered, "we got a call from Willow and we came."  
  
"Willow?" she asked with puzzlement, shaking her head once more as the   
images of what happened less than an hour ago started to come into her   
still-benumbed brain. The men. The guns. The pain.  
  
"Oh, crap," Buffy growled with a frown as she took a short look around,   
not seeing either Willow nor Spike as they were covered by Angel's form.   
"I remember, those people wanted... they wanted something from Giles,   
where is he?"  
  
The souled vampire shook his dark-haired head. "I don't know. Those   
people, whoever they were, kidnapped him and it seems both Cordy and Oz   
are following them. Xander and the rest of the guys have gone in search   
too. We came here," he added with a final mournful grimace. "You've given   
me a big scare."  
  
"We?" the Slayer asked, her confusion increasing with each passing minute   
and quickly turning into dread. "Who are we?"  
  
Sighing, Angel leaned away from her, allowing her to see Willow's   
unconscious form lying on the bleached-hair vampire's arms.  
  
"Oh my God," she whispered, quickly getting out of her boyfriend's arms   
and crawling on her hands and knees to the spot where her friend and Spike   
where lying.  
  
She looked straight at his cold blue eyes and found, much to her own   
surprise, that they had turned a very darker shade, covered by a thick   
layer of worry. "Is she alright?"  
  
Spike shrugged helplessly, the motion resulting strange and unusual on   
him. "I-I dunno, she's breathin' and her pulse is firm, I guess that's a   
good sign, don't ya think so?"  
  
Buffy looked at him with wide eyes, surprised by the tone of utter   
helplessness in his voice. It was as if the powerful, bad-ass vampire was   
asking her for confirmation as a scared child asks one of his parents if   
the house is strong enough during a night of storm.   
  
And, truth be told, she didn't know what to tell him.  
  
As the blonde Slayer soothingly caressed her friend's face, momentary   
forgetting about her own state, the bleached-hair vampire holding the   
petite redhead raised his face and took a look around, frowning suddenly.  
  
In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten that Xander had told Rachel to   
come to the bookstore too and that, even when they had taken a more direct   
way, the brunette Immortal should already be here.  
  
"I'll call for an ambulance," Angel said, finding Cordelia's lost cell   
phone on the floor and quickly dialing the 911 as he took a look at the   
broken window and the quickly fading daylight thinking that, at least,   
they would have more freedom of movement in a few minutes.  
  
Reaching out for the small walkie-talkie he carried in the back pocket of   
his black jeans, Spike switched it on and handled the control panel until   
he finally locked onto the chosen communications frequency.  
  
"Rach? Do you hear me?" he called the Immortal woman. The only response he   
got was the sound of static coming out the speaker, and the bleached-hair   
vampire could only frown. "Come on, Archangel Three, do you read me?"  
  
Nothing.  
  
"They're coming," his sire said, bringing him out of his reverie.  
  
Spike shook his head and looked dumbfounded at the mute walkie-talkie in   
his hand, before putting it back in his back pocket. "What?"  
  
"The ambulance, it's on the way," Angel explained to him with a sigh,   
passing a tired hand over his handsome features. Then he reached out and   
examined gently the redhead's head and face. "She has a good bump on the   
back of the head, and a cut here on the temple, but none of that seems   
really serious."  
  
"Maybe she has a concussion," Buffy said, her face still pale and her   
hazel eyes darkened by worry to a dark green shade, "or an internal   
hemorrhage, or..."  
  
"Don't freak out," Spike growled at her tensely, "and don't freak me out.   
She's alright, OK luv? She's got to be alright."  
  
Buffy looked straight into his blazing blue eyes and, once more caught   
off-guard by their intensity, couldn't do anything more than to nod in   
silent agreement.  
  
That same intensity, and the deep emotion in his childe's voice, didn't   
escape Angel's notice now that he was quickly calming down after Buffy's   
resurrection. He wondered how it was that he hadn't noticed it before.  
  
Spike was falling hard for the young redhead, and doing it pretty quickly   
too. Although that wasn't surprising coming from him, he who always like   
to live at the edge of the abyss, for better or worse.  
  
He was about to say something, he wasn't very sure what, but then   
something very different caught his attention, an scent, a lingering smell   
coming to his sharp nostrils. And what chilled him to the bone, was that   
it was coming from Willow.  
  
Burnt flesh.  
  
Feeling his undead heart tightened by the cold hand of pure fear, Angel   
reached out for the buttons of her cardigan and started to gently pop them   
apart.  
  
"What are you doing?" Buffy asked him with a frown, that was shared by the   
bleached-hair vampire.  
  
"Sshh," the soul-filled vampire hushed her, continuing his actions with a   
deep look of concentration. When he had finally unbuttoned the first five   
buttons, he carefully opened the cardigan, exposing the white T-shirt she   
wore beneath.  
  
He gulped down a thick knot of nervousness, and with the greatest possible   
care he separated the fabric of the T-shirt from her chest, elongating   
then the nail of his right index finger into a razor-sharp claw and using   
it to neatly rip the fabric.  
  
"Buffy, one of those men that attacked you, was he some kind of...   
magician?"  
  
The blonde Slayer nodded slowly. "Yeah, he and Willow had a pretty big   
fight, with lots of pyrotechnics and all," she said looking down at her   
friend's expressionless face. "I didn't know Wills was so powerful, she   
impressed me, but that guy... he was like... well," she finally shook her   
head and closed her eyes, unable to find the right words, "he won."  
  
Without uttering a word, Angel crossed a look with his childe and, when he   
saw the expression of panic in his eyes, he understood that Spike had   
noticed the same smell in the air and that he also knew what it probably   
meant.  
  
Angel slowly uncovered Willow's upper chest, and looked down. "Oh my   
God..." he whispered, closing his eyes.  
  
Buffy gasped, covering her mouth with her hands and Spike just clenched   
his teeth tightly, making an effort not to yell a curse.  
  
Willow's skin was badly burned, as if someone had thrown acid onto the   
middle of her chest. Her flesh was a deep, almost bleeding red and her   
usually milky-white and soft skin was torn and criss-crossed by long   
scars.  
  
They were like small folds, covering practically all of her chest. And, in   
front of their very eyes, the flesh was still bubbling and getting redder   
by the second.  
  
"Oh my God..." Angel repeated, unable to take his dark eyes away from her.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
  
To be continued... 


	6. Part 6 of 10

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book III, part 6 of 10  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general   
corrections by Theo  
  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow   
kissing and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial,   
Land of 'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline   
to accommodate it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy'   
happened a lot later than it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are   
only tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of   
Highlander-style immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole   
'Immortals have no parents and are found in a little basket' is a... um,   
the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada', so let's just ignore it, OK?  
  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit,   
merely for the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander,   
Willow, Oz, Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle   
Gorch, Quentin Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property   
of Joss Whedon, Warner Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of   
Highlander and the characters mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda   
Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the Society of Watchers) are the   
property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the   
World Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are   
copyright of their respective rights owners.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language,   
so any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my   
wonderful beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please   
be kind with me. I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child,   
believe me.  
  
SUMMARY: Broderick Egoyan has carefully chosen the right moment to strike,   
when friends are against friends and all trust seems about to vanish   
between Slayerettes and Archangels. It's right when you think things   
couldn't get worse that they get worse.  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen,   
because it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book III  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as The Sergeant  
Benjamin Bratt as Santero  
Trevor Goddar as Backlash  
Dolph Lundgren as Havoc  
Rob Rowland as Chopper  
Jake Busey as Sniper  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Matthew Ferguson as Chip  
  
Bill Paxton as Major Stephen Marsden, USAF  
Tom Sizemore as Master Sergeant Ricky Perkins, USAF  
John Leguizamo as Airman First Class Charlie Martinelli, USAF  
Mario Lopez as Airman First Class Alonso 'Bear' Vasquez, USAF  
Patrick Labyorteaux as Sergeant Edwin Walters, USAF  
  
Richard Dean Anderson as Col. Jack O'Neill, USAF  
Michael Shanks as Dr. Daniel Jackson  
Amanda Tapping as Maj. Samantha Carter, USAF  
Christopher Judge as Teal'c  
Don S. Davis as Gen. George Hammond, USAF  
Teryl Rothery as Dr. Janet Fraiser  
Tom McBeath as Col. Harry Mayborne, USAF  
Peter Deluise as Airman Shepard, USAF  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
and  
  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
She was just a couple of blocks away from the bookstore when the 'buzz'   
hit her, and Rachel instinctively braked her red Suzuki bike, stopping it   
with a screech and leaving a black mark of burnt rubber on the gray   
asphalt of the road.  
  
Bringing a foot down to the ground and with the other one still leaned of   
the rider's stirrup, the brunette Immortal raised the shield of her   
helmet. She looked back over her shoulder as a huge black Lincoln Town Car   
emerged from a near alley and slowly rolled closer to her until its   
massive frame stopped just a few meters behind her back.  
  
With the engine of the bike still growling beneath her, Rachel scanned the   
interior of the car, trying to see something through the darkened windows.   
But they were so deeply tinted and the ambient light was so low, that it   
was nearly impossible to even distinguish the figure of the driver behind   
the steering wheel.  
  
All she could say was that there was an Immortal inside that car, and that   
he, or she, wasn't anyone she would consider a friend.  
  
The car remained quiet, its long hood still shaken by the vibrations of   
the powerful Ford V-8 engine below it, illuminating her back and the rear   
side of her red sports motorcycle.  
  
Raising an eyebrow, the brunette Immortal revved her bike a couple of   
times and, holding the handlebars as if they were the bridles of an   
enraged stallion, she made the Suzuki turn around 180 degrees. She traced   
an arc with the rear wheel as it madly spun against the road, bathing her   
in a white-gray cloud of burnt rubber.  
  
Then, after a short acceleration and a warning roar, she killed the   
engine, set the kickstand and dismounted from it. The brunette Immortal   
slowly took off her helmet as she went and stood in front of her red bike,   
her silhouette trimmed on the dark asphalt by the Suzuki's still turned-on   
headlamp.  
  
Still holding her helmet on her left hand, Rachel unzipped her leather   
jacket with her right one and, very slowly, extracted one of her short   
Japanese swords from its interior, lowering it and almost nonchalantly   
holding it with the blade down against her thigh.  
  
She raised an expectant eyebrow and the car, still quiet about five meters   
in front of her, seemed to come back to life. Its huge engine revved up   
and roared into the growing darkness of the night, as its massive body   
started to shake, only restrained by the action of the brakes.  
  
Rachel sighed and a small smile appeared at the corner of her full sensual   
lips, but not an inch else of her body moved away.  
  
The roar of the V-8 engine died and the Lincoln remained quiet and silent   
like a big but tired mechanical beast. There was a moment of absolute   
silence, a moment of expectancy, like the calm before a storm.  
  
Then the driver's door was opened and the tallest and darkest man she had   
ever seen came out of the huge sedan, carrying a broad and curved scimitar   
on his right hand and a cold look in his bottomless dark eyes.  
  
=Remarkably handsome in a dark way,= she thought. He reminded her of a   
proud African prince, a Massai warrior with his Nubian chiseled face   
sculpted into pure black ebony. His cold, almost absent expression, his   
distinguished looks, his elegant clothes... he was a man with class, there   
was no doubt of that.  
  
And the way he moved, with smooth and controlled movements, like a black   
panther, was the unmistakable signal of a real, experienced fighter.  
  
Still, she was sure they hadn't ever met before.  
  
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Curran," he greeted her as if   
he had read her mind, making a soft and elegant bow with his head but   
never losing sight of her. "I've waited with impatience for this moment...   
for a very long time."  
  
Rachel couldn't help but raise an incredulous eyebrow. "I'm afraid the   
pleasure will have to be all yours. I'm in the middle of something at this   
very moment, something that requires my whole attention and I can't afford   
to waste time here with you. However," she added politely but with an   
edged smile, "if you want to set a future date, I'm sure we'll be able to   
have a little... tête-à-tête."  
  
The tall dark man shook his bald head slowly. "I'm afraid I can't wait   
anymore. And you shouldn't worry about your current... obligations, or the   
state of your friends." He smiled with courtesy but coldness and Rachel   
frowned at hearing him, the hand holding her sword tightening her grasp on   
it.  
  
"The truth is, at this very moment you shouldn't be worrying about   
anything except yourself... and me."  
  
The brunette Immortal let out long and controlled breath, and finally   
nodded in agreement. "Well then, do you have a name, or is this going to   
be a one-sided meeting?"  
  
The black man's smile grew wider, but not warmer. "The name's Smith, Mr.   
Smith."  
  
Arching her brow, Rachel had to make an effort to hold back the laughter.   
"I would make a funny remark, but I'd guess that you've heard them all by   
now."  
  
At the man's soft nod, the Immortal woman entered into a fighting stance,   
raising and crossing the short blade of her wakizashi in front of her at   
the same time that she planted her feet on the ground. "There can be only   
one."  
  
Mr. Smith imitated her stance, flexing his knees as he held his scimitar   
high above his bald head and his free hand stretched out in front of him,   
balancing his body. His face lost all trace of his former smile, becoming   
still and expressionless. "There can be only one."  
  
There was a second of silence, in which they locked eyes, fighting a quiet   
battle as they measured each other's strengths and weakness.  
  
Then, the left corner of Rachel's mouth rose in an almost imperceptible   
smile and she started to move with the speed and precision of a wildcat,   
her short Japanese sword flowing in a flash of light.  
  
The tall black man received her with a powerful slash of his curved blade   
directed straight to her neck that she blocked with her wakizashi, locking   
hilts with him. The blow carried so much force that Rachel felt a pulse of   
electric pain running all throughout her right arm.  
  
But she just bit her lower lip and swallowed the grunt of pain that came   
to her mouth, pushing her opponent's blade away. She spun around and,   
bringing up the helmet that she still carried on her left hand, smashed it   
against his face, making him backpedal away from her.  
  
Making good use of her momentary advantage, Rachel completed the 360   
degree spin with a high kick that elicited a moan of pain and a spray of   
saliva and blood from his lips. Smiling with satisfaction, the brunette   
woman jumped ahead and, leaning her left foot on Smith's own bent knee to   
gain momentum, executed a high crescent kick.  
  
It reached his chin with the point of her boot-clad right foot, before she   
completed her movement with a backflip that made her spin in the air and   
land heavily on her feet like a cat.  
  
Suddenly finding himself trapped between the front of his Lincoln and the   
fast brunette tornado, the black-skinned Immortal took the initiative. He   
pushed against the hood of the car with his free hand and let out a roar   
of rage, as he slashed madly with his scimitar, making Rachel duck down to   
a crouched position to avoid getting beheaded.  
  
The curved blade passed over her head with a 'swoosh' of sliced air and   
she had to let herself fall back and roll over her shoulder, to escape   
from Smith's large foot when he tried to stomp her head.  
  
"Oh, that was quite clumsy, to say the least," she observed as she nimbly   
jumped to her feet and regained her fighting stance.  
  
The tall man simply shrugged. "I prefer effectiveness, I'll leave the   
flourishes to you," he said with his deep and vibrating tone, after   
spitting away a disgusting phlegm stained with blood.  
  
Making a grimace of distaste, Rachel groaned and charged forward. At the   
last possible moment she threw her black helmet to his face, and used the   
moment of distraction that it produced to launch herself forward and to   
the ground, as she initiated a roll over her right shoulder.  
  
As Smith swung his scimitar like a baseball bat, cleanly slicing the   
plastic helmet in half in mid-air, the brunette woman passed neatly under   
his moving sword and dived between his separated legs, rolling on the road   
and turning around on her bent knees as she stood up.  
  
Smith's heavy blade hadn't finished its arc when Rachel was already facing   
his back, her left knee to the ground and her short sword slashing the   
back of his right thigh, severing flesh, muscle and tendons.  
  
A normal man, even an Immortal one, would have fallen to the ground,   
screaming at the top of his lungs as a spray of blood erupted from the   
recently opened wound. But, as Rachel discovered at that very moment,   
Smith was far from being normal.  
  
He just grunted as if he had been pricked by a mosquito and brought back   
his sword, brutally hitting the woman in the middle of her face with its   
pommel.  
  
Profusely bleeding from her nose, Rachel was propelled up and backwards   
until her back collided with the hood of the Lincoln, the metallic flesh   
of the car painfully digging in the small of her back.  
  
Spinning around on his wounded leg, ignoring the pain and the blood coming   
out of the gash in a spurt, Smith attacked his enemy, tracing out a   
circular slash with his heavy sword and making her roll to one side in   
order to dodge it.  
  
The scimitar passed barely a couple of inches away from her face, and hit   
the hood of the car at Rachel's side. It opened up a wide gash on the   
metallic surface, and provoked a cascade of sparks with the impact, that   
rained between the two of them in a shining fall.  
  
Using the momentum of his own spin, Smith turned around again, and this   
time the aim of his sharp and curved blade was directly towards the   
Immortal woman's chest.  
  
Knowing that a stroke as powerful as the upcoming one would probably cut   
her in half, Rachel jumped backwards, leaning on the large hood, and then   
rolled over it away from the black man.  
  
With a growl, Smith pressed on her with short stabs and controlled slashes   
of his scimitar, making the brunette woman recoil away from him until she   
was about to stumble upon the windshield of the car.  
  
Noticing her slight hesitation when the heel of her right boot collided   
against the glass of the windshield, Mr. Smith brought back his curved   
blade and discharged an unstoppable blow that targeted her legs just at   
the height of her knees.  
  
Rachel jumped up into the air and flexed her knees, until her heels were   
touching her buttocks, leaving the blade to pass harmlessly under her   
body. Then she landed back on the hood, producing a decent dent on the   
black metal with her boots and making the entire frame of the car bounce   
on its suspension.  
  
But Smith countered her with a spinning high kick, that hit her on the   
back of her knees and flipped her legs from behind her body, making her   
painfully crash down on the windshield. The glass surface yielded under   
the impact, shattering into a thousand sharp fragments.  
  
The brunette Immortal ended up in an awkward and painful position, with   
her shapely and beautiful but pained ass sticking into the car and her   
arms spread out, holding onto the upper edged of the now broken windshield   
for support.  
  
"Oh, shit," she grunted when she realized that she was practically   
trapped.   
  
"I couldn't have said it better myself," Smith observed with a smile on   
his thick lips, already tracing a devastating arc with his sword straight   
towards Rachel's neck.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
After removing the painting covering it, Havoc only needed a couple of   
seconds to open the safe door, using the combination that Swann had   
extracted from the British man's mind.  
  
"Open Sesame," he said cheerily, spinning the handle and opening the heavy   
door to reveal the vault's contents.  
  
As the large Scandinavian mercenary started to rummage through the   
safe-box's contents, Santero yanked roughly at Giles' handcuffs, bringing   
the Watcher to his knees with a grunt of pain.  
  
He covered him with his rifle as the one-eyed warlock sat down on a corner   
of the large bed, and took one of the numerous volumes piled up on the   
bedside table. He flipped through its pages, in an attempt to alleviate   
the deep boredom that was clearly reflected in his elegant but cold   
features.  
  
"You do have an interesting selection for your nightly readings, Mr.   
Giles," he said with a sigh, taking a new look at the books and reading   
their titles aloud.  
  
"Hagens' 'Deimonicus et nosferata', DePaula's 'Criaturas de pesadilla'...   
a good selection, indeed. Tell me Mr. Giles, do you have usually any   
trouble falling asleep?"  
  
"Because if you do," Swann observed, shaking the book he held in his hand   
and giving him a twisted smile, "this is not going to help you, my friend,   
not at all."  
  
Giles sighed and tried to find a more comfortable position on the floor,   
extracting his tired legs from under his body so he could sit down on the   
carpet.  
  
"Hey," Santero warned him, quickly taking off the safety of his HK   
carbine, "stay still."  
  
The British Watcher just sent an hostile look to his captor, but when he   
spoke he did it with his usual coolness and controlled politeness. "If   
you're going to kill me or, as you've previously and so... distastefully   
said before, put a bullet into my brain, the least you could do is allow   
me to be a little more comfortable. Don't you think so, young man?"  
  
Santero stared down hard at him and brought the muzzle of his gun closer   
to Giles' face, practically leaning it on his temple. "Don't try anything   
weird, or it will be the last thing you ever do."  
  
"Leave the man in peace, Mr. Santero," Swann patiently told the younger   
mercenary before looking back at Giles with a polite smile.  
  
"Please, excuse him, Mr. Giles. He and his friends have just suffered a   
very embarrassing episode at the hands of your younger associates, and   
they're all a little wounded in their small egos, so to speak."  
  
"How are they?" the British Watcher asked, barely succeeding in   
maintaining his calm tone. A sudden surge of worry ran through his whole   
being when he thought of his young protégés, the brave people he loved and   
liked to call his family.  
  
The Hispanic mercenary smiled cruelly at him. "That pretty redhead tried   
to bite off more than she could chew and the sexy blonde... well, she got   
really intimate with my friend Backlash. With three bullets from his gun,   
to be exact."  
  
"Bastard!!" he shouted at the Cuban man, scrambling to his feet and   
charging against him furiously. Taken by surprise, Santero wasn't able to   
react fast enough to dodge Giles' attack.  
  
The British Watcher, still with his hands tied behind his back, hit him   
like a football linebacker; with his shoulder on the mercenary's stomach,   
he raised his frame off the floor and dragged him backwards, until   
Santero's back collided with the near wall.  
  
Santero grunted in surprised pain and tried to push Giles back, but the   
older man kneed him in the crotch before he could even move. He also hit   
him in the forehead with a powerful head-butt that broke his right   
eyebrow, and made a line of blood start to roll down his temple.  
  
Swann rolled his only working eye and, sighing, made a soft gesture as if   
he was grabbing some invisible object and yanking at it. Giles felt like   
somebody with prodigious strength had grabbed him from the back of his   
jacket and pulled him back and towards the ground, away from the Hispanic   
mercenary.  
  
Santero, with a twisted grimace of rage, shouldered his rifle and aimed   
down at the British Watcher's fallen and still dazed figure. Swann made a   
new gesture, this time with his index finger, and the same invisible force   
pushed the gun away, removing its muzzle from Giles' head before Santero   
could open fire.  
  
"I told you to leave him in peace," the warlock warned the mercenary with   
a no-nonsense tone, receiving a hard stare of rage from him.  
  
He turned to Giles and said, "And you, try to stay a little calmer, my   
good friend. Where has all that well-known British impassivity gone to?"  
  
"I've been in this country for too long a time," Giles grunted as he   
struggled to a more upright position, leaning his back on the foot of the   
bed, "and I've acquired some nasty American habits."  
  
Then, looking up at the one-eyed warlock, he stabbed him with his hard and   
shining green eyes. "Like always keeping my promises. I will kill you."  
  
The warlock arched his brow, in a mix of wonder and surprise. "Well,   
you're certainly not what I would expect from a member of the Council.   
What are you, Travers' black sheep or something?"  
  
At the mention of the ancient Council of Watchers, the organization Giles   
worked for and supposedly was faithful to, and its leader, the British man   
half-closed his eyes and looked at Swann more carefully, measuring him.  
  
At first he had thought that he was some kind of rented, itinerant   
magician that sold his powers to the best bidder, like Ethan Rayne,   
although this man had a control over the dark powers that he had rarely   
seen before.  
  
Obviously, his assumption had been wrong.  
  
"Let's just say that I'm 'or something'," Giles answered him, choosing his   
words with great care. "Are you associated with them in any way?"  
  
Swann let a wide, genuinely amused smile cross his lips and shook his   
head, as he took a new Gauloises from his golden cigarette-case. He put it   
into the jade holder, before bringing it to his lips and lighting it.   
  
"No, no... they offered me the chance to be a part of the Council some   
years ago, but I've always found them too old and musty for my taste.   
Furthermore, my personal interests differ from the Council's in   
practically every way," he said.  
  
Giles raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean that they're not a bunch of   
psychotic and greedy criminals?"  
  
The one-eyed warlock practically burst out in laughter. "Truth be told,   
that was the only thing we had in common, my dear friend. Greed? Yes, I   
won't deny that I like a good, easy life, and that I love all the luxuries   
and advantages that money and wealth can provide."  
  
He told the man at his feet, leaning down to speak to him practically in   
his ear, "And that I'm inclined to do almost anything to get them. But do   
you want to know what real greed is, Mr. Giles? Greed is to have power and   
crave for more, greed is to dwell in the shadows, playing with others as   
pawns in a secret war, using their lives as if they weren't worth a   
thing."  
  
He continued, "Greed is using a young and inexperienced girl as a thing,   
to take her in the prime of her life, shape her, use her and then get rid   
of her when you can't utilize her anymore. Are you familiar with what I'm   
telling you?" the warlock asked, tilting his head to one side and smiling   
like a snake.  
  
"You're a bastard," Giles whispered to him, with less conviction than what   
he would have liked.  
  
"Am I?" Swann nodded slowly, as he leaned back and away from Giles.   
"Probably, but what does that makes you and your dear Council, Rupert   
Giles? How was it again? 'A Watcher's responsibility is to train, help and   
care for his Slayer', right? That's what your people have been telling   
those poor children, practically since the dawn of time. That you're there   
to be their mentors, their friends, their only family..."  
  
The warlock shook his head and exhaled a cloud of smoke from his lungs,   
the gaze of his lonely blue eye boring into Giles like a nail into a   
coffin.  
  
"What a load of crap, if you'll pardon the vulgarity. You're their   
guardians, yes, that much is true – but in the sense that you're their   
jailers. You care about them just because you need them to maintain the   
status quo... to keep your little parcel of power."  
  
Giles shook his head, with more tiredness than conviction. The truth was,   
all these words and the ideas behind them weren't really alien to him.  
  
He had already known them, and for the last few years Buffy and himself   
had drifted away more and more from the Council's designs and control. And   
the suspicions about his superiors and supposed commanders had grown   
within his mind and soul.  
  
Still, he wanted to believe that there were good people working within the   
Council, and that the power-hungry characters like Quentin Travers were   
more an aberration than the norm.  
  
If it was the other way around, he wasn't sure how long he would be able   
to protect Buffy, what with her recently discovered... specialty.  
  
And, above all, he wasn't going to give this man the pleasure of allowing   
his words to hurt him.  
  
"So what?" he asked, with a snort of mild amusement and deep scorn. "Are   
you going to tell me that you're the good guy, and that they are the real   
evil? Are you going to try and convince me that you are on the side of the   
right?"  
  
The one-eyed man shook his head in denial. "There's no right or wrong side   
to this, Mr. Giles, only different shades of gray. But truth be told, yes,   
I do believe myself better than your friends on the Watcher's Council. I   
am sincere, at least; I want money and power, and I don't need to use a   
little girl to cover my actions."  
  
"No, you only hurt them," the Watcher stated with a hateful stare, "and   
you cover your rear with a group of hired mercenaries."  
  
A hostile, furious expression flashed across Swann's tarnished face for an   
infinitesimal second, but then it vanished as if it had never existed.   
Instead, the warlock smiled at the man at his feet softly and charmingly,   
before turning his head around to look at Havoc.  
  
The mercenary was kneeling down beside the safe-box, and still rummaging   
through its contents, discarding and throwing them over his shoulder with   
careless abandon. "God, I haven't seen so much trash in my whole life," he   
protested with a ragged accent.  
  
Swann shook his head with incredulity. "Like throwing daisies to swine,   
eh, Rupert?" he told the Watcher with a new smile, this time of   
complicity. The warlock leaned down, and rummaged carefully thought the   
discarded items on the floor.  
  
Books, papers, documents and other unclassifiable items. A small statue of   
an ancient Greek goddess, a thick bronze necklace with a latched-on   
emerald, what seemed like Celtic wristband... out of all of them, the   
one-eyed warlock chose a small volume, bound in leather and with ancient,   
yellowed-by-time pages.  
  
"Is this what I think it is?" he asked, with a reverent expression of   
surprise and wonder. "The Pergamumn Codex?"  
  
Giles exhaled a long sigh, and nodded. "The very same."  
  
Slowly turning the yellowed pages with great care and with a wondered,   
reverent gleam in his blue eye, the warlock couldn't help but smile like a   
child on Christmas morning. "Well, I have to admit it, sometimes life   
truly rewards you. I've been searching for a copy of this book for years,   
and I find it here in an old man's safe-box!"  
  
He barked out a dry laugh. "Life not only rewards you, it can be also   
damned ironic, don't you think so?"  
  
Ignoring the fact that he had been called old by a man that was probably   
the same age as him, and not wanting to think on the implications of it,   
Giles frowned with puzzlement. "What do you find so interesting about a   
book of Slayer lore? You of all people could hardly find something useful   
in it."  
  
Swann laughed again, closing the book and tapping his chin with its edge   
as he looked back at the Watcher, his lonely eye shining with a spark of   
heartfelt amusement and his mouth open with a wide, unrepressed smile. "Do   
you know what it is this book contains?"  
  
Giles nodded again, his green eyes half-closed with weariness. "The   
prophecies about the Slayer's role in the end years."  
  
"Yes, yes, that's what the Watcher's textbook says," the warlock told him,   
mildly bored and disappointed. "But what exactly does that mean, Rupert?"  
  
This time, and without losing his distrust for the man in front of him,   
Giles couldn't help but to shake his head, admitting his lack of   
knowledge. "Well, the Slayer... it was foretold that she would have an   
important role before..."  
  
"...the end," Swann finished for him. "That's the problem with all of your   
kind, Mr. Giles. You're so narrow-minded, that you can't see what things   
are really like beneath the surface."  
  
"And you do?"  
  
"I do. The end years, Rupert. The signs are out there, in everyday   
newspapers and you only have to read them: war, death, ethnic cleaning...   
horrors we thought had been banished from the surface of earth are coming   
back with a vengeance: pestilence, hunger. The old ways are coming back,   
the lines are being drawn and the moment is getting closer by the minute,   
Rupert."  
  
Leaning closer to the Watcher so he could speak right into his ear in a   
low, intimate tone that only the two of them were able to hear, the   
warlock parted his mouth into a devilish grin.  
  
"The end is near, my dear friend," Swann whispered, "and it's time to   
choose the side you want to be on when it comes for you."  
  
Giles gulped at the coldness in his tone and the fanatical conviction in   
his words. When the warlock leaned back and away from him and he was able   
to see right into his face, the British Watcher wasn't sure of what to   
think about him.  
  
Either he was a madman, or there was something that he, that nobody, had   
realized before and that was beyond his worst nightmares.  
  
The inner voice of his mind played the same words again and again, inside   
his head. The end was near.  
  
The end was near...   
  
"Eureka!!" Havoc exclaimed with enthusiasm, bringing him out of his   
momentary reverie. The mercenary took something out of the safe-box, a   
shapeless object wrapped in a bundle of white linen, and held it up   
triumphantly "I found it!!"  
  
Carefully putting the Codex in the pocket of his jacket, Swann got up from   
the bed and neared the knelt-down mercenary, taking the object he was   
holding into his hand and methodically pulling apart the folds of fabric   
enveloping it.  
  
Looking at him with an enraged expression, Giles couldn't do anything more   
than to sigh with impotence. "Let's see if we have a winning ticket," the   
warlock said with a whisper.  
  
The artifact's golden surface was finally exposed and, at that very   
moment, the last ray of the fading sunlight entered through the bedroom's   
window, hitting it and making it shine with a golden glow that looked   
unreal to all those present.  
  
The corners of Swann's mouth rose up in a smile of pleasure, his face   
illuminated by the bright reflection of the gold and the jewels engaged in   
it. He carefully removed the rest of the linen envelope and moved the   
artifact to one side and the other, examining it with a critical and   
expert eye.  
  
It was a cross, large enough to be held with both hands, and completely   
forged in gold and valuable jewels. Although, as all of them knew, its   
value lay beyond the materials used in its fabrication.  
  
"The du Lac Cross," the warlock said reverently, his lonely blue eye   
captivated by the intricate engravings of gold. "The work of a genius, the   
ransom of a king and the key to powers that can't be even conceived, not   
to mention described. Beautiful, isn't it?"   
  
"I guess so," Santero observed with half-closed and bored eyes. "Is it   
what we were looking for?"  
  
The warlock read carefully the engravings for a short moment, and then   
yanked at the upper arm of the cross, exposing the sharp and bright blade   
hidden inside it. "It is," he stated.  
  
Outside, the sun vanished and the darkness started its nocturnal reign.  
  
"Can we go now?" Havoc asked, as he started to get up off the floor. "I'm   
getting hungry."  
  
The warlock nodded, his attention still captured by the silver blade.   
"Yes, there's nothing more keeping us here. And you can do whatever you   
please with Mr. Giles, Mr. Santero – we don't need his services any   
longer."  
  
With an absent, expressionless face, the Hispanic mercenary began to lift   
his rifle as if he was about to lean its butt against his shoulder. But   
instead, and as the middle-aged British man raised his defiant eyes to   
him, he just let the weapon go.  
  
Plastic and steel bounced on the carpeted floor, as he raised his hands in   
the universal sign of surrender.  
  
Frowning, both Swann and Havoc looked at him with identical expressions of   
confusion. "Santero," the Scandinavian man said, one of his knees still on   
the floor, "what the hell...?"  
  
And then, the last thing that any of those present would expect emerged   
from behind the Hispanic mercenary. A barefoot brunette beauty with torn   
and revealing clothes, wildly tousled hair and a daring, almost perverse   
smile stretching her sensual lips apart.  
  
Without taking the muzzle of her HK submachine-gun she was holding in her   
left hand from the small of Santero's back, Cordelia raised her right   
hand, wielding the compact and nasty-looking 9mm weapon she had stolen   
barely minutes ago.  
  
"Oh, please," she told the men, the smile never leaving her face, "don't   
tell me that the party's over already now that I've finally come! Why   
don't you stay and we have a little fun?"  
  
The warlock looked alternately at the armed young woman, the two   
mercenaries and the handcuffed Watcher, before letting his head fall back   
and barking a dry but genuinely amused laugh.  
  
Santero sighed, and stifled a curse under his breath. "I had a bad hunch."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
The moment that the lights went out inside the warehouse and all the   
computer screens turned black in front of his spectacled eyes, the   
mercenary hacker called Chip removed his fingers from the keyboard as if   
it was burning him.  
  
He looked around, completely clueless about what was going on.   
Nevertheless, and as a prudent measure of precaution, his right hand went   
promptly to the grip of the silenced pistol holstered under his left arm,   
drawing it out.  
  
Chip got up from the chair and moved smooth and silently towards the exit   
of the lab area, his hand tightly gripping the gun as he walked. He cursed   
his slightly myopic eyes and lack of good night vision, which rendered him   
almost as blind as a mole in the middle of the reigning darkness – but   
without the aid of the animal's other heightened senses.  
  
He was about to get out of the lab, carefully stretching his arm in front   
of him so he wouldn't stumble upon anything, when he saw a large bulk,   
darker than the darkness itself, cross his path in the middle of an   
unnatural silence.  
  
"Hold it!" Chip warned the shadow, with a trace of nervousness on his   
voice. "Or I blow your brains out!"  
  
"Hey, please don't shoot me, mister," Beast's deep and amused voice came   
from the bulk as the black giant raised his hands in surrender and walked   
closer into the smaller man's field of vision, his white teeth shining in   
the darkness, "I'm a poor and helpless lady."  
  
"Oh, hell," Chip sighed, raising the silencer-equipped muzzle of his   
Beretta and leaning its cold metallic surface against his forehead as he   
closed his eyes and let out an exhalation of relief. "I was about to open   
a new hole in that ugly face of yours, man."  
  
"Ugly? Who, me? Well, I'm offended," the way taller black man said with a   
twisted smile. "Now, care to tell me what you've done to return us to the   
Dark Ages?"  
  
"I've done nothing," the hacker said while looking around, trying to spot   
something beyond his partner's large figure. "Did you get that damn dog?"  
  
Beast shook his head as he checked his wounded arm, which he had   
precariously bandaged with a torn piece of his own shirt. "Nah, he'll   
probably be hidden in some dark corner, and I don't think we'll be able to   
find him with the lights off. We should get out."  
  
Chip nodded in agreement. "The parasite program is almost completely   
loaded, the moment they restore power we'll have complete control, and   
then..." he made a gesture with his hands, bringing one closed fist   
against the other and then suddenly opening them, "...ka-boom."  
  
"Then we have nothing else to do here, let's go," Beast told him, turning   
around and beginning to walk towards the exit without waiting for him.  
  
"Still," Chip observed as he hurried his pace to reach his partner's   
larger steps, "I'm a little worried. We've left too many giveaways here."  
  
The tall black man shrugged as they reached the spinning staircase, and   
started to walk it down to the garage. "So what? They won't have enough   
time to react if they-"  
  
His words were cut short when a large and shapeless bulk emerged from the   
pitch-black darkness, jumping into the hood of a tattered VW Beetle. It   
propelled itself into the air with a soft growl and landed on Chip's   
unaware back, pushing the mercenary hacker over the thin banister and to   
the floor below.  
  
Chip grunted in pain when, after falling down two meters like a stone, his   
shoulder hit the hard floor followed by the rest of his body. Then a   
heavy, hairy bulk pinned him down and choked the air out of his lungs.  
  
His pistol slipped away from his grasp, sliding away over the concrete,   
and the mercenary tried to turn around as he madly slapped around with his   
hands in an unsuccessful attempt at freeing his body from the weight of   
the dog pressing him down.  
  
As he grunted, gasped and swore, grasping handfuls of long, silky hair and   
yanking at them as two large paws ended in hard and surprisingly sharp   
nails scratched both side of his face, his nostrils were filled with a   
pungent and musky animal scent. And a deep, vibrant growl resounded inside   
his ears.  
  
"Beast!" he called his partner as he struggled with the animal, grabbing   
him by the thick neck and trying to stop him from locking his powerful   
jaws around his throat. "Get this thing off me!!"  
  
Quickly walking down the stairs as he raised his own gun, Beast tried to   
get a good aim at the dark bulk covering most of Chip's figure. As he   
found that it was nearly impossible to shot the attacking dog without   
hitting his partner in the process, the large black mercenary cursed   
between his teeth and, lowering the pistol, charged against the animal.  
  
He grabbed the growling German shepherd by his thick torso and, using the   
total strength of his massive body, Beast pushed the dog off of his   
smaller partner, his nails leaving bleeding furrows on the skin of Chip's   
cheeks and his growling gullet spraying foam and saliva everywhere.  
  
The two of them ended up in a shapeless pile of flailing limbs on the   
floor, with the black-skinned mercenary lying on his back and his large   
arms surrounding the animal's thick torso. Elvis growled and barked,   
shaking his body to get free from the human's grasp with his loins to his   
chest.  
  
"Help me out here!!" Beast shouted. "This monster is very strong!"  
  
Chip scramble to his knees and hands and, after rearranging his lopsided   
spectacles over his nose, started to pat the floor in search for his   
weapon.  
  
"What are you waiting for?!?" his partner roared with annoyance.  
  
"I'm looking for my gun!" Chip answered, frantically doing so.  
  
"Forget about that," the dog finally managed twist his body around and   
lean his four paws on Beast's body, his long, saliva-dripping fangs going   
quickly in search for the flesh of his left shoulder, ripping the fabric   
of his clothes, "just use your damn knife!!"  
  
Nodding absent-mindedly, Chip brought his hand to the back of his belt and   
unsheathed the short SOG dagger he carried there. The hacker mercenary   
hurried on his knees to the struggling form in front of them and, slipping   
his left arm between them so he could grab the dog's hindquarters, he   
raised his right hand and sank the blade down, stabbing the animal in its   
side.  
  
Elvis whined in pain, warm and sticky blood immediately spurting out from   
the open wound as the mercenary hacker took the sharp blade out from it.  
  
He was ready to plunge it down again, but, at the same time, the pain that   
engulfed Elvis' whole being drove him crazy, a red veil of rabid rage   
covering his warm and large brown eyes and a furious, uncontrolled roar   
escaping his snout.  
  
The German shepherd twisted, bit and flailed about between the two men,   
suddenly turned into a faithful resemblance of greased lightning.  
  
"Kill him!!" Beast shouted.  
  
Chip snorted, fighting to regain his grasp on the animal. "What do ya   
think that I'm trying to do?!"  
  
And then with a new shake and a growl, Elvis was free from them and   
running away in search for the cover offered by the rusty frame of   
Cordelia's Beetle.  
  
Struggling with Chip, who without the dog's body to lean on had fallen on   
his partner's legs, Beast retrieved his gun and blasted a couple of wild   
rounds against the German shepherd's moving figure. He missed the target   
by a couple of meters, and the bullets bounced inoffensively on the car's   
rear bumper.  
  
"Damn! Damn! Damn!" the black man cursed out loud as he stood up, and   
helped his friend to do the same. As Chip finally found his Beretta lying   
on the concrete and raised it to cover his partner's back, Beast rounded   
the car as fast as his long legs allowed him, chasing the dog's trail and   
ready to put a couple of bullets into his hairy body.  
  
But, once more and in spite of the bleeding wound in his side, it seemed   
that the large German shepherd had vanished into nothingness.  
  
"I can't believe it," Chip whispered suddenly behind him, startling the   
taller man. Beast sighed and, wiping a thin layer of cold moisture that   
was covering his lower lip, the mercenary knelt down and examined the   
concrete floor. "That dog is a ghost."  
  
"More than what you think," Beast said with a respectful tone.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"You cut him, didn't you?"  
  
Chip nodded but, nevertheless, he raised the short dagger to his eyes and   
examined the blade to be completely sure. It was tainted with red blood.   
"Yes, I did. And pretty deep."  
  
"Then where's all the blood gone?" the black man asked him.  
  
Before he could answer, a low rumble ran along the whole warehouse as the   
emergency power generator finally kicked in and the set of lights in the   
garage's ceiling switched on, bathing the interior into a weak golden   
haze.  
  
The two mercenaries instinctively raised their eyes to the lamps above   
them and a cold, almost unreal chill run through their bodies as one.  
  
"What do we do now?" Chip asked in a hushed tone.  
  
"Let's get out of here," his partner said.  
  
The shorter man pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his nose and,   
nodding his agreement, followed the black man out of the warehouse, the   
two of them constantly looking over their shoulders. Checking that nobody,   
no man and no ghost dog, was following in their steps.  
  
It wasn't until their figures had disappeared beyond the closed door of   
the warehouse that the hairy figure of the German shepherd emerged from   
his hiding spot under the Beetle's frame and slowly walked to the middle   
of the practically empty garage, severely limping from his rear right leg.  
  
Growling softly, with his angry brown eyes nailed to the doorway they had   
just crossed, Elvis twisted his neck and started licking the wound on his   
side, cleaning the already drying blood from it and the hair surrounding   
it with his fat and spongy tongue.  
  
Then, when it was completely clean, he returned his gaze to the closed   
door and sat down on his hind legs.  
  
Very slowly, but without any pause, the wound in his side started to heal,   
the separated edges knitting together by themselves until, a few moments   
later, there was only a thin scar on his flesh. And, after the hair   
completely grown around it, not even that was visible anymore.  
  
Standing up, Elvis padded softly to the door, the limp as vanished as the   
wound on his side. He sat down beside it, his chest to the floor and his   
large snout cradled between his front paws, getting ready to spend the   
next few hours guarding it.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Rachel saw the bright flash of the curved blade tracing out an arc   
straight towards her neck, and couldn't help but to feel like a chicken   
about to be sacrificed. But then, if there was one thing that she had   
learnt from Michael Deveraux, it was not to lose her head and allow panic   
to overwhelm her.  
  
So, as the distance between the upcoming scimitar and her unprotected   
throat got smaller and smaller, the brunette Immortal let the short sword   
she was holding in her right hand fall to the ground.  
  
Acting even faster than her own thoughts, she crossed her arms over her   
chest and bent her thin waist, leaning to one side and rolling through the   
shattered windshield and into the interior of the huge Lincoln.  
  
Just in time too, as at that same moment the blade hit the edge of the   
car's roof right where her neck had been leaning upon just a fraction of   
second before, deeply biting the metal and ripping a rain of golden sparks   
from it.  
  
She held back a whine of protest when the broken pieces of glass still   
attached to the border of the windshield scratched the unprotected skin of   
her face and hands as she slipped over the dashboard, painfully hitting   
her ribs against the steering wheel.  
  
Dodging it with an effort, the brunette woman fell on the front seat as   
Mr. Smith yanked at his weapon to extract it from the metallic grip of the   
roof and jumped on the hood, making the entire car bounce up and down on   
its punished suspension.  
  
"Do you think you're going to get out of this that easily?" he asked as he   
turned the scimitar around on his hand, holding it blade-down. "Then   
you're very wrong, my dear."  
  
Smith plunged the curved sword down, stabbing the roof and burying the   
blade deeply into the car's interior. Inside, Rachel pressed herself   
against the seats and exhaled all the air out of her lungs, trying to   
avoid the upcoming blade as it broke into the false safety of the car's   
interior.  
  
But this time, she wasn't fast enough and the sharp edge hit her right   
behind her left shoulder, cutting through the thick layers of her leather   
jacket and shirt.  
  
It opened a bleeding gash on her smooth skin and ripped a scream of sudden   
pain from her mouth, that died as a muffled grunt when she bit her lower   
lip to silence it as she helped her pained arm with her other hand.  
  
And then, practically at the edge of her vision, she noticed the keys of   
the car, softly rocking in the ignition.  
  
With one foot on the hood of the car and the other leaned on the edge of   
its roof, Smith yanked at his sword with both hands and extracted it,   
ready to plunge it down a second time. "Time to face the end, young one,"   
he growled.  
  
Rachel smiled and reached out for the keys, twisting them and giving life   
to the powerful Ford V8 engine with a roar. "Let's see you face this!" she   
yelled back to him, as she put the car in reverse and slammed her foot on   
the gas pedal.  
  
The rear wheels slid madly on the pavement for a short second and then the   
car jumped backwards with a sudden shake of its whole body, a cloud of   
smoke coming out from the burnt tires.  
  
Losing his balance with the unexpected movement of the car beneath his   
feet, Smith's shoes slipped off the polished surface of the hood and the   
black-skinned Immortal fell down on his ass.  
  
He rolled over until his body finally fell off the car, painfully crashing   
against the hard concrete while Rachel kept driving in reverse with her   
foot glued to the gas pedal.  
  
She struggled to get into a straighter position in the driver's seat, and   
took the steering wheel in her hands. But, before she could get complete   
control of the car, its rear reached the edge of the road and crashed   
against a parked Toyota, the impact smashing the Lincoln's backside into   
an unrecognizable mass of twisted parts of steel and plastic.  
  
At the same time, the innocent small car was thrown over onto its side on   
the walkway and then upended itself, its windows exploding into a cascade   
of glass fragments.  
  
Rachel was launched forward with the impact and her head hit the steering   
wheel, opening a wound on her brow that started to bleed immediately.   
Shaking her brunette head to clear up her suddenly fogged brain and sight,   
she spotted Smith about 20 meters ahead of her, standing on his unsure   
feet.  
  
He had some wounds on his face and was bleeding profusely from his nose   
but, although his elegant clothes were a little dirty and torn, he didn't   
look really harmed at all.  
  
He raised his dark and intense eyes and locked them with Rachel's usually   
soft brown ones, which were now so hard that they looked like twin pieces   
of glass. Never moving her gaze away from him, the Immortal woman shifted   
the car into gear and, firmly holding the wheel, slammed on the gas,   
launching the Lincoln against its owner.  
  
"Who should be the worried one now, jerk?" she asked in a low, menacing   
tone as the car quickly reduced the distance between them.  
  
Instinctively, the black-skinned man raised his hand to cover his eyes as   
the bright flash of the headlamps blinded him.  
  
Just a second later, the Lincoln's wide nose hit his body with a sickening   
sound of crushed bones, dragging him for a couple of yards before his   
whole figure finally disappeared under the hood and away from Rachel's   
sight.  
  
If he screamed, cursed or yelled at her, his voice was covered by the   
deafening roar of the engine and the bounce of the car's frame, as the   
thick tires ran over the Immortal man's body.  
  
With a serious expression that was devoid of any kind of amusement, Rachel   
kept driving for a couple of yards until she finally released the gas   
pedal and stepped on the brake. She turned the wheel violently around,   
making the car skid and finally stop right beside her own bike.  
  
Looking through her side's window, the brunette Immortal spotted Smith's   
broken and fallen figure in the middle of the road, each one of his limbs   
twisted in impossible angles and snapped like thin straws of hay.  
  
His clothes were torn and dirty and the blood seemed to flow from a   
thousand different wounds on the dark skin of his bald head, forming a   
slow and sticky pool behind him.  
  
But still, he wasn't quiet, or seem even close to being defeated.  
  
"Oh, come on," she whispered to herself, as she looked at the Immortal's   
figure with wide and incredulous eyes. "You have got to be joking!"  
  
If she wasn't eye-witnessing the whole thing, she would have never   
believed it. Not far away from her, Smith's arms and legs twisted of their   
own volition as the broken bones snapped into place and the open wounds   
closed by themselves at a speed she had never seen before, in any other   
Immortal.  
  
So fast that, in just half a minute after being run over by the heavy   
sedan, he was already starting to stand up to his feet, leaning the point   
of his scimitar on the ground to help himself.  
  
Not losing her calm, Rachel killed the engine, opened the door and got out   
of the car as she extracted her second wakizashi from the secluded   
scabbard under her plain leather jacket.  
  
Spotting the first one fallen on the asphalt more or less between her and   
Smith, she lightly jogged then quickly ran towards it.  
  
Running now at top speed, the brunette Immortal retrieved her lost sword   
from the ground. Just when Smith was completely up, she jumped smoothly   
into the air, tracing a perfect flying kick against his chest as she let   
out an enraged war cry.  
  
Her right foot came into contact with the man's breastbone and, just with   
that mere touch, she knew that the strike would have the same effect as   
that of kicking a wall made of concrete. Smith anchored his large feet to   
the asphalt and withstood the impact, his body not moving an inch.  
  
Rachel stifled a curse and flexed her knees, to absorb the momentum of her   
own blow. She leaned her two boot-clad feet firmly on the man's chest, and   
flipped herself backwards and away from the seemingly unmovable black man,   
tracing an arc in the air with her slender body and finally landing on the   
ground with her knees bent.  
  
Letting out an inarticulate roar, Smith responded to the attack with a   
savage forward blow, his heavy weapon falling on his female opponent with   
devastating speed and force. Rachel raised her twin swords and crossed   
them over her head, barely blocking the blow at the juncture of the   
blades.  
  
Knowing that couldn't give him the upper hand in the fight, the brunette   
Immortal spun around her right leg and extended her left one on a round   
sweep directed against the back of his knees.  
  
Once more, it felt like hitting concrete.  
  
Smith barely flinched at the blow and discharged a second strike, forcing   
Rachel to make herself fall back in order to roll away from him and his   
incoming sword. Pushing with the heels of her hands against the rough   
asphalt, she flipped herself up in time to block a new slash with one of   
her twin blades, this time directed against her midriff.  
  
She used her other sword to return the attack with a double cut that   
crisscrossed the man's chest, opening near identical gashes on his clothes   
and skin.  
  
This time, as she noticed the grimace of pain that crossed his handsome   
face and the way in which he recoiled away from her, she realized that she   
had finally obtained a small victory and pressed on, trying to keep him   
off-balance.  
  
She spun like a twister, her twin blades flowing like liquid metal in the   
cold air of the night and the long mane of hair swinging around her head   
in a tousled, mad cloud of shiny mahogany.  
  
The sharp edges cut Smith along his broad chest and arms again and again   
as the shorter and way slenderer woman kept on hitting him with everything   
she had, slashing him, kicking him, using the sword's guards like steel   
knuckles to punch him in the ribs and his chin.  
  
The blood spurted out of a hundred cuts, raining down on her and staining   
her face and clothes, but Rachel didn't stop, didn't slow down, didn't   
even think of doing so. She just kept moving like a lightning bolt, turned   
into a furious wind of death.  
  
She completed a new spin and her swords were suddenly turned into twin   
stingers; the right one entering the man's left wrist right below his   
hand, the blade appearing at the other side of his forearm, cutting   
through flesh, muscles and tendons.   
  
The left one stabbed him in his right kidney, digging into his abdomen   
until the wakizashi's guard touched bottom.  
  
Pushing him to keep his arm away from her, Rachel twisted her blade inside   
the wound of his stomach as she locked gazes with him. She gained a pained   
grunt from him, but nothing more than that and a slight frown of   
discomfort from his stone-faced expression. =Who the hell is this man?=  
  
"Why don't you do me a favor, and just drop dead?" she asked him, deeply   
annoyed.  
  
"Sorry," he growled back, "but I'm not accepting special petitions today."  
  
Bringing his egg-shaped head back and suddenly forward, Smith hit her with   
a powerful head-butt that smashed her nose, turning it into a bleeding   
parody of its beautiful self.  
  
He repeated the movement, shattering the arch of her brow, and once again   
and again until she was finally pushed away from him and fell to the   
ground, holding onto the very limits of consciousness for dear life.  
  
Towering over her fallen body, Smith grabbed the handle of the sword   
protruding from his abdomen and yanked at it with decision and nothing   
more than a slight frown of pain crossing his features. The blade came out   
from his flesh stained with his blood, and with a sucking sound. He   
discarded it away, then took the other one and repeated the procedure.  
  
Then, he placed each one of his legs at each side of Rachel's prone body   
and looked down at her, his eyes hard but strangely warm at the same time.   
He even managed a small smile for her benefit.  
  
"It's been a good fight, young one," he told her politely, wiping a trace   
of blood from his brow with the back of his hand. Then, as he checked the   
weight of his own scimitar held in both hands, Smith placed his right foot   
on the woman's stomach, pinning her to the ground. "But all good things   
come to an end, sooner or later."  
  
Grabbing Smith's ankle with her two hands, she dug her nails on his skin   
and struggled with him as he increased the pressure and choked the air out   
of her lungs.  
  
"I know that," she whispered, with her throat dry and sore by the bile   
running up her esophagus, "but mine hasn't come yet. I still have a lot of   
things to do, buddy."  
  
Then, taking him by surprise, she bent her right knee and shot her foot up   
like a dart, hitting him right in the crotch with all her strength.  
  
Smith whined like an agonized pig and fell away from her, letting his   
sword go so he could hold his intensely pained area. Free of the pressure   
on her stomach, Rachel gasped for fresh air, her chest rising and falling   
as she weakly tried to stand up.  
  
The last time she'd felt this exhausted and pained, it had been after an   
awesome 24-hour session of lovemaking in Michael's bedroom.  
  
=But this time,= she thought with a deep note of sarcasm, =somehow, I   
can't find that feeling of satisfaction that Jean-Michel always manages to   
give me.=  
  
On that thought's trail, the memory of her French lover came back to her   
mind and she wondered where he was, what he was doing. If he was safe, and   
what was the reason why she hadn't been able to contact him before going   
out of the warehouse.  
  
=Stop that,= she told herself, =he's a grown man. He can take care of   
himself, and you still have to see if you can say the same about   
yourself.=  
  
"You're a bitch," Mr. Smith grunted, still holding his family jewels.  
  
Rachel snorted with sarcasm and, standing up in unstable feet, kicked him   
in the face. "And you're a bastard, a jerk and an asshole," she insulted   
him in retaliation, resting on her bent knees to regain some resemblance   
of even breathing. "And a lot of other things that I can't think of right   
now."  
  
At that very moment a wailing siren was heard and a large ambulance   
rounded the corner at the end of the road, illuminating the darkened   
street with its red lights as it quickly neared them.  
  
"I don't like witnesses," Smith said, looking sideways at the upcoming   
vehicle as he got up and retrieved his scimitar.  
  
Quickly following his movements, Rachel did the same with her wakizashis   
and stood up in front of him, the blades down but her body ready to enter   
into a fighting stance at the man's slightest intent of attack. "So, what,   
do we set a new meeting for a later date?"  
  
He tilted his head to one side and smiled, as he slowly started to walk   
away from her. "If you want to call it that..."  
  
As the black man opened the door of his tattered sedan and sat down behind   
the wheel, Rachel looked hard at him through the shattered windshield.   
"Next time you won't be so lucky, Smith."  
  
The man smiled again and, this time, he managed to look genuinely amused.   
"This doesn't have anything to do with luck, Ms. Curran. At all."  
  
She shook her head and, when the car started its engine and began to   
slowly roll away from her, she stepped aside. "It's been a pleasure," the   
man told her with a soft wave as the car passed by her, "I look forward to   
our next rendezvous."  
  
The car rolled away, increasing its speed, and Rachel looked at its   
smashed back with a mix of confusion, anger and wonder.  
  
"So do I," she whispered, almost to herself, "so do I."  
  
Then, the ambulance reached her spot and she quickly went to her bike,   
ready to follow it. She had the strangest suspicion that she knew where   
that ambulance was going, and she didn't like it the least.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Santero was wounded in the innermost core of his professional pride. To   
say that he was furious would be an euphemism; he had allowed the brunette   
girl, barely anything more than a high school cheerleader if the reports   
didn't lie, to sneak up on him and place a gun right in his backbone,   
catching him by surprise and completely off-guard.  
  
He remembered his previous words of reprimand to Backlash and Havoc, and   
wanted to kick his own butt for his own failure.  
  
Still, something at the back of his mind told him that there was something   
that he hadn't known, that there was one thing that the briefings hadn't   
told him.  
  
He had seen her moving, shooting and fighting back in the bookstore, she   
had been acting like a brunette whirlwind and there was something that, no   
matter what the reports would say about it, he was sure of.  
  
This kid was a pro.  
  
"You, don't even think about it, and keep your hands where I can see   
them," Cordelia said harshly, moving the Glock on her right hand to aim at   
Havoc when the Scandinavian mercenary's hand made an attempt to reach out   
for the pistol under his jacket.  
  
The large mercenary looked at her with rage but obeyed her, raising his   
hands. "Giles, are you alright?" she asked.  
  
The British Watcher looked at the young woman with what could be only   
described as a flabbergasted expression, his mouth so open in wonder and   
surprise that a whole freight train could have gone through his lips.  
  
"Jeez, Giles," Cordelia said him with a frown, "don't look at me like   
that, you're giving me the creeps. Well, are you alright or not?"  
  
Giles shook his head, and finally came back to his senses. But the image   
of the brunette young woman, who he still sometimes saw as the annoying   
and spoiled brat she had once been and who he would always see like a   
child he had to protect, turned into a merciless Amazon, was carved onto   
his mind.  
  
It made him feel proud, relieved and unnerved at the same time.  
  
"Never been better," he finally answered her question, his eyes glued to   
the nasty-looking pistol on her hand as she softly but firmly moved it   
from Havoc to Swann, and then to Havoc again.  
  
"OK then people, this is what we're going to do," she said, licking her   
lips and thinking fast as she took a look over Swann's shoulder to the   
bedroom's window, trying to spot Oz and wondering what was keeping the   
young werewolf.  
  
"You," she ordered Santero, pressing the muzzle of the HK submachine-gun   
against his back, "on your knees, and hands behind your head."  
  
"This is way out of your league, little girl," the Hispanic mercenary told   
her, not following her instructions. "You should do the most intelligent   
thing and get away from here as far as you can, before you hurt yourself   
with one of those guns."  
  
Raising an eyebrow, starting to feel really pissed off, Cordelia brought   
back the HK and hit the man brutally on the back of his knees with it,   
right on his bandaged wound. Letting out a yelp of surprised pain, Santero   
fell to the floor and the brunette quickly placed the muzzle of the gun   
right behind his ear.  
  
"I said on your knees," she coldly told him, increasing the pressure of   
the gun to the point that it became painful, her other hand still aiming   
at the Scandinavian mercenary, "and don't try anything stupid, because   
you're not fast enough, OK? Now, with two fingers get your weapon out and   
throw it on the bed. I said now!"  
  
Santero and Havoc finally obeyed her, the Hispanic man placing his hands   
behind her head and the Scandinavian one taking out his Desert Eagle and   
throwing its heavy frame onto the bed. Cordelia aimed at Swann, tightening   
her grip on the semi-automatic pistol so none of them would notice the   
shaking of her hands.  
  
Because they were shaking. The adrenaline was pumping out into her veins   
like liquid fire, fueling her, and she had never felt this excited, scared   
and hilariously alive in her whole life.  
  
Was this what Xander had told her about? The thrill of the hunt, the   
suicidal joy of the fight? She had thought she'd understood him, but she   
had been wrong... until now.  
  
God, it was fantastic, scary, wonderful and horrifying at the same time.   
And she wasn't sure if she was loving or hating every second of it.  
  
=OK, Cordy,= she told herself with a voice that sounded surprisingly like   
Xander's silky one, =don't lose your head right now. You're in control,   
you can do this. Damn it, you are doing it.=  
  
"Giles, can you stand up?" she asked the Watcher.  
  
"I think so," he whispered, struggling to get up and grimacing in pain   
when he leaned on the edge of the bed for support. He flexed the broken   
finger of his hand.  
  
He swallowed a curse and sat down on the bed, regaining his breath for a   
moment before leaning back and stretching his arms out as he attempted to   
pass his handcuffed wrists beneath his folded legs and feet.  
  
"Bloody hell," he grunted, "this was easier when I was 18."  
  
Shaking her head at the image that came to her mind on the trail of Giles'   
comment, she noticed the slight movement of the one-eyed man's hands and   
her Glock moved in a flash to aim at him. "Don't do anything weird, I'm   
aching to put a bullet into your sick brain for what you did to my   
friends."  
  
"Are you?" the warlock asked with a playful smile, slowly moving his hands   
to sheath the blade he was still holding, turning it back into a cross.   
"Do you think you can pull that trigger, darling?"  
  
"Cordelia..." Giles warned her as he made a final effort to free his bound   
wrist under his left foot, the only one that was still trapped. "Don't   
listen to him, don't listen to his words!"  
  
The one-eyed stranger's smile was mesmerizing, she thought, and the   
brightness of his only blue eye was so intense that it was almost   
blinding. But, at the same time, it was calling her, trapping her whole   
attention into its blue depths. It was a whirlwind, a maelstrom, and she   
was starting to feel drown into it.  
  
"Cordelia..." Giles' voice called her name again, sounding distant in her   
ears, as if he was very, very far away...   
  
"Interesting..." he whispered, slightly tilting his head to one side and   
looking at her with more attention as he felt the young woman resisting to   
his hypnotic manipulation.  
  
"You're strong, much more than what meets the eye... you're special,   
aren't you? You're a diamond, amidst a pile of coal. You have it inside   
you, I can perceive it, the strength... the force... but you're not ready   
yet, aren't you? You can't take a life..."  
  
Very slowly, as if the pistol on her hand suddenly weighed a ton, she   
started lowering it, slowly but without any sign of stopping. "You can't   
pull that trigger, you can't..."  
  
"Cordelia!!!" Giles shouted again as he finally managed to slip the chain   
of the handcuffs below his folded leg.  
  
In an instant so short that it couldn't be perceived, the brunette young   
woman was snapped out of her entranced state by the Watcher's voice. She   
raised her gun again.  
  
At the same time, the sorcerer started to unsheathe the bright blade of   
the du Lac Cross, and Havoc moved to retrieve his pistol from the surface   
of the bed.  
  
And then, even before any of them knew what was happening, Cordelia fired   
the gun.  
  
The thunder of the gunshot stilled all four men in the room and all their   
faces turned to her, looking at her figure in amazement as she wielded   
firmly the smoking Glock on her hand, her hazel eyes hard and resolute.  
  
Then, the clatter of metal was heard when Swann let the cross fall to the   
floor and he raised his left hand to his temple. In the wall behind him,   
just beside his head, there was a new little hole.  
  
When the warlock brought his hand to his only eye after checking his skin   
right where he had felt a soft breeze caressing his silver hair, he found   
that his fingertips were stained with his blood. Still holding his   
bloodied hand up, he looked back at the young brunette, his mouth opened   
in surprise.  
  
"I told you not to do anything weird," Cordelia told him with a half, one   
could even say even cruel, smile. "Now you have two scars, do something   
like that again and you'll have a hole in your forehead to match them!"  
  
Swann looked at her with a hateful gleam in his only eye, clenching the   
blood-stained fingers of his hand into a tight fist. "You will pay for   
this," he growled, his tone becoming low and ragged.  
  
Something sparked in his only blue eye, a flash, a bright pulse of   
electricity gleaming on its surface that started to grew, coming out of   
the blue globe in crackling rays.  
  
Biting her lower lip, Cordelia sent a short look towards Giles, asking   
silently for help or, at least, advice. She knew that she was losing   
control of the situation, and doing it pretty quickly. She wished that   
Xander was here with her more than ever in her life.  
  
The British man looked back at her and then, out of the corner of his eye,   
at Havoc's figure, noticing how the Scandinavian man's eyes wandered from   
the warlock and his knelt-down partner to the huge gun on the bed.  
  
"Shoot him!!" Giles shouted as he and Havoc seemed to think the same at   
the same time and the two of them jumped onto the bed, their arms and   
hands in search for the discarded gun.  
  
Everything happened at the same time or, at least, that was how it looked   
like to the young woman's eyes. The electric blue glow coming out of   
Swann's eye engulfed his head, bubbling and swinging around him like a   
cloud of steam.  
  
Suddenly, as he spread his arms wide, his feet abandoned the floor as his   
body started to levitate. His lips moved, silently mouthing words she   
wasn't able to understand, not even repeat. Cordelia's finger tensed on   
the trigger, and her sights centered on the warlock's head.  
  
She was close, so close that to miss was nearly impossible. She could even   
picture the moment of the shot in her head, the explosion of the   
gunpowder, the deceptively small projectile coming out the barrel of the   
gun within a cloud of smoke and tiny metallic fragments, slicing through   
the air and hitting the man right in the forehead.  
  
And then... then his brains flying out from the back of his head, and a   
rain of gray tissue and red blood spraying out like a fountain, staining   
the wall behind him as his body fell down to the floor into a shapeless   
pile...   
  
Killing a human being. Taking a life. Becoming a killer.  
  
She felt suddenly breathless. And she doubted...   
  
Santero, almost forgotten by everybody at Cordelia's feet, seized his   
chance. He started to move, letting himself fall face-first to the floor   
in front of the young woman and then rolling to his back as he trapped her   
slender legs between his ones, scissoring them and making her fall to the   
floor with a grunt.  
  
Giles and Havoc fell on the bed with their hands stretched out to grab the   
Desert Eagle, struggling to gain the upper hand. "Let it go, old man," the   
Scandinavian man growled, his fingers twisting around the thick barrel of   
the gun.  
  
"Over your dead body," Giles grunted back as he brought his knee up to hit   
the mercenary on his side. The man moaned his pain and returned the blow   
with his elbow, ripping the spectacles from the Watcher's face.  
  
Then, as they both yanked at the pistol, trying to gain it, Havoc managed   
to grab Giles' broken finger and twisted it, making him scream at the top   
of his lungs.  
  
"Bastard!" the Watcher shouted, smashing Havoc's already bloodied nose   
with his forehead. Then, as the man's head fell back and the tampons on   
his nose came out followed with twin lines of blood, he let all his weight   
fall on him, pushing him out on the edge bed and to the floor.  
  
As both of them were still grabbing the Desert Eagle as if their lives   
depended on it, Giles fell behind him, pinning his body to the carpeted   
floor. "I told you to let it go, old man!"  
  
Frowning and knowing that the lack of movement of his handcuffed hands   
would give his opponent the ultimate advantage, Giles decided that it was   
time for more unorthodox tactics.  
  
Yanking once more at the gun and bringing the man's hands closer to his   
face, the middle-aged Watcher bit him savagely on his wrist, pressing with   
his teeth until Havoc's skin broke.  
  
Giles' mouth was filled with the man's warm, coppery blood, and a scream   
of pain escaped his lungs as his grasp on the pistol weaken enough for the   
Watcher to rip it away, gaining the upper hand.  
  
"And I told you," Giles shouted back as he grabbed the pistol by the   
barrel and swung it like a mace, "over your dead body!!"  
  
The massive butt of the gun hit Havoc in his temple, and the Scandinavian   
mercenary's head jerked to one side violently. Giles, taking advantage of   
the moment, straddled his chest and hit him again with the butt of the   
gun, this time on his lower jaw.   
  
"And don't call me old man!!"  
  
As she fell to the floor, feeling its carpeted surface coming closer and   
closer to her body, Cordelia cursed herself for her slow reaction and   
pulled the trigger wildly and almost without taking aim at all.  
  
She sent a compact group of bullets in the levitating warlock's general   
direction, and then rolled to one side to escape from Santero's foot. The   
mercenary, still on the floor much in the same way that she was, raised   
his leg and then let it fall like a mace, trying to smash Cordelia's   
pelvic area with the heel of his heavy combat boot.  
  
The three rounds erupted by the dark pistol stabbed the air, tracing tense   
paths of smoke on it as they went in search for their target and, for an   
infinitesimal second, the brunette young woman thought that she had just   
achieved it, that she had killed the one-eyed man.  
  
But then, still levitating and with his only eye flashing small lightning   
bolts, Swann moved his hand even faster than the own projectiles, placing   
it with his palm facing them.  
  
There was a pulse of energy in the air and the three bullets stopped dead   
in the air, floating as if in space without gravity, and then fell down to   
the floor, inoffensively bouncing on Giles' thick carpet.  
  
"Shit," Cordelia grunted, making an effort to roll away from him and   
Santero and then getting to her knees. The brunette remembered the   
submachine-gun in her left hand and raised it, pulling the trigger and   
sending a burning wave of lead against the warlock until the weapon   
clicked empty on her hand.  
  
Once again, the bullets erupted from the gun and, when they reached the   
mark set by the warlock's hand, reduced their speed until they remained   
floating in mid-air.  
  
Swann, his face transformed into an eerie glowing version of itself,   
smiled widely at her. "My turn," he whispered at her, tilting his head to   
one side.  
  
As the shining glow enveloping his body seemed to get more and more   
intense with each passing second, the warlock brought his two hands back,   
and then slapped them together violently.  
  
Instead of the usual clap to be expected, a sound of thunder was heard   
inside the room, and the one-eyed man figure shone like a nuclear   
explosion, blinding all those present.  
  
And then, as the rumble of a thunderstorm shook the entire place, the   
shock wave emerged from him, a ball of propelled hot air advancing at the   
speed of sound, swallowing everything and everybody in the room.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
After leaving Cordelia, Oz rounded the building until he was under the   
window of Giles' bedroom and took a grip on one of the drain pipes coming   
down from the roof. He kicked off his sneakers and socks, and started to   
nimbly climb up the pipe with the aid of his claws and talons, his   
enhanced strength and agility turning the task into an easy matter.  
  
He was halfway to the bedroom's window, using his sharp ears and nose to   
learn as much as possible from what was happening inside the room, when   
something else caught his attention.  
  
Something that made the wolf inside him shake and growl, and the hairs on   
the back of his neck stand up to attention as if he was under the effect   
of a strong electrical field.  
  
Something... he wasn't able to define it. It was a smell, a sensation,   
something inside him, something he wasn't able to understand. Something   
that was coming.  
  
Then something clicked inside his mind and, as he held onto the pipe,   
digging with his sharp claws on the hard metal, Oz turned his head around   
and looked up to the quickly darkening sky.  
  
The moon. Bright, shining, full like a tasty dish of milk.  
  
In the heat of the moment he had completely forgotten about it. It was the   
night after the full moon. It was the moment of the change.  
  
"No," he whispered and, when it came from his lips, his voice sounded   
exactly like a growl.  
  
He was in a hurry, he couldn't lose any time, he had to...   
  
But, at that very moment, as the bright light of the moon above mesmerized   
his golden eyes, his blood started to run inside his veins like molten   
lava. His heart started beating at a fast, furious rate and the air came   
out of his lungs in short, uncontrolled breaths.  
  
There was nothing more than him, the moon and the wolf.  
  
Oz let his head fall back and opened his mouth in a twisted grimace,   
baring his long and sharp fangs, and then he let out a long,   
blood-chilling howl that echoed into the dark night like a haunted cry.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
The Pantera brothers drove along the long residential street, with the   
engines thundering as they rode on their bikes side by side, making use of   
the whole width of the road as if it belonged exclusively to them.  
  
Their faces were cold, expressionless, and if there was any sign of life   
in their eyes, it was completely hidden by the dark sunglasses they were   
wearing. Which, in conjunction with the clothes they were wearing and the   
bikes they were riding, made them look like a couple of modern-day   
barbarians.  
  
As the sun slowly settled down in the horizon, the last rays elicited   
shining sparkles of light from the chromed parts of the two   
Harley-Davidson motorcycles, the metallic tacks on the shorter man's   
leather clothes and the whole surface of the reflecting and spaceman-like   
silver jumpsuit of the taller one.  
  
Without uttering a word, as if they were thinking the same thing, they   
stopped the bikes when they reached the spot marked by the black Humvee,   
keeping the engines alive. Being the one closer to the military vehicle,   
the man called Talon leaned slightly on the passenger's window and took a   
look at the interior.  
  
He saw the unconscious form of the mercenary inside it and turned his head   
around to look at his younger brother, giving him a feral smile.  
  
"Pathetic," he said simply. "Good that here we are."  
  
The taller man shared his brother's smile, shaking his wildly colored head   
and sniffing the air. His nostrils flared, opening, closing and making the   
two rings he had pierced on them tinkle in the process.  
  
"You smell it?" Rush asked, licking his thick lips with hunger.  
  
As if on cue, the heart-wrenching cry of the werewolf came to them,   
brought by the wings of the night breeze.  
  
Talon nodded slowly, the smile disappearing from his lips, replaced by a   
grim expression. "Wolf. May cause problem."  
  
His brother's mouth parted into a wide grin and his tongue darted out   
again, this time to pass slowly over his ivory-white teeth, tracing the   
sharp edges of his canines.  
  
"Will be funny," he said, bringing his left hand to the edge of his   
sunglasses and tilting them down his nose so he could look at Talon over   
their black plastic frame. "And me hungry."  
  
His eyes, dark as twin pieces of coal, shone under the gleam of the moon.   
Then, just as he blinked, they seemed to house a couple of whirlwinds as   
the dark brown orbs changed into jade-green, and his pupils stretched out   
into twin-edged cracks, like the ones of a cat.  
  
Talon nodded slowly and, without uttering any other word and as Rush   
pushed the shades up his nose, covering his eyes again, the two Pantera   
brothers revved up the Evolution engines until it seemed that there was a   
thunderstorm menacing to tear the sky down.  
  
Then, they speeded up and moved to the near apartment building, leaving   
dark clouds of smoke behind them.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
A searing pain engulfed his body and the semi-turned werewolf felt his   
limbs weakening, until he wasn't able to keep his hold on the drain pipe   
and his claws slipped off the cold and rough metal, finally losing their   
grasp on it.  
  
Oz fell for ages, the cold night air breezing the peach-fuzz grown all   
over his body and drawing salty tears from his golden eyes, until his back   
finally collided with the fresh and muddy grass of the garden surrounding   
Giles' apartment block.  
  
A grunt of pain, too inhuman to be considered a moan, escaped from his   
wolfish lips and the young musician squirmed on the ground as a myriad of   
sensations, some of them white-hot painful and some others exquisitely   
pleasurable, went through his body in the blink of an eye.  
  
"No," he moaned, fighting the change, "not now, please. I can't... they...   
Willow... Cordelia... they need..."  
  
His voice disappeared into a growl as his still-human features melted   
away, and his mouth transformed into the gray and sharp snout of a wolf.   
His skin broke out into a cold, acidic sweat that covered every squared   
inch of his skin, drenching the growing hair, plastering it to his body.  
  
"Noooo!!!!" he screamed once more as he fought to stay in control,   
clumsily scrambling to his knees, his clawed fingers digging into the wet   
mud. Raising his face to the dark sky above, he focused his yellow eyes   
onto the blinding white disc that was the moon.  
  
"Don't do this to me!!" he shouted, feeling suddenly more angry than what   
he had felt in ages. "What do you want from me? What do I have to do to   
please you? Do you want my body? Do you want my life?"  
  
The moon above, cold and serene, didn't answer him. Growling, roaring,   
feeling the tendrils of his human consciousness slipping away as a surge   
of primitive, feral impulses replaced them, Oz grabbed the torn remains of   
the T-shirt covering his torso.  
  
He yanked at them furiously, ripping them off and baring his heaving chest   
to the cold air of the night. A cloud of white steam abandoned his   
nostrils as he breathed deeply, his eyes full of pungent tears and his   
heart heavy and pained inside his chest.  
  
He couldn't give up. His friends' lives could depend on him, they might be   
in his hands, on what would happen on the very next seconds. And he wasn't   
going to fail them. So, gathering all the strength of his will, steeling   
his heart, armoring his soul, Oz fought to keep on thinking as he had   
never done before.  
  
Clenching his hands into tight fists, his own claws broke the skin of his   
palms and his dark, thick blood oozed between his fingers.  
  
And the change stopped. His face reverted back to his human features, the   
hair grew back, abandoning his fair skin and his mind, his pained,   
exhausted mind, was clear again.  
  
Nevertheless, he was still able to feel his long fangs inside his mouth   
and his elongated nails scratching his own skin. His tears, whether of   
physical pain, of pure exhaustion or heart-felt sadness he didn't know,   
rolled down his face, leaving cool and wet tracks on his cheeks.  
  
Still, the wolf was fighting to roam free. Still, the moon was calling to   
him. Still, it seemed that there was nothing he could do to prevent the   
change.  
  
He thought back to the very first time in which he was able to control, to   
provoke the change, that day after Gilles de Rais broke his neck and took   
away his precious Willow.  
  
Everything had been so clear back then; lying on the stretcher of the   
warehouse's infirmary, feeling the pure rage fueling the turning, running   
through his veins like burning acid, making his heart beat so fast and so   
strong that he thought it was going to burst out of his chest.  
  
=What had happened then?= he wondered. What had allowed him to control, to   
provoke the change? He had thought that it had been the primal impulse of   
the fury, the anger boiling up inside him that had put him in final   
contact with his inner wolf.  
  
But, after that day, he had been always able to provoke the change and he   
couldn't remember being as angry as he had been back then.  
  
So, maybe it wasn't the anger. What had it been then? He breathed deeply   
and closed his eyes, trying to stay calm.  
  
Immediately, the wolf resumed its attack, yanking at its boundaries,   
trying to get free. Grunting in pain, Oz fell forward onto the muddy   
grass, holding his guts.  
  
And then the answer came to his mind, so obvious, so clear that he had to   
make an effort not to burst out laughing at his own stupidity.  
  
It was not the fury. It was acceptance. Of the wolf. Of himself. Of what   
he was. Of what he ever would be.  
  
He wasn't a man possessed by some strange beast, by a werewolf. He was a   
werewolf.  
  
He thought on what had happened that very morning, in Willow, Spike and   
himself, in the way that, as always, he had kept his own feelings to   
himself, boiling inside him.  
  
The rage, the fury was a primal, powerful impulse, so much that it was   
scary, but it was a part of him and he just couldn't keep it inside him   
anymore, he couldn't hide it.  
  
Struggling with his own limbs, that suddenly felt like they weighed a ton,   
Oz stood up laboriously and raised his face again, dirtied by the mud, to   
the bright moon above.  
  
"Do you want me, Mother? You got me!" he shouted to the full moon, feeling   
suddenly deliriously happy, his mouth stretched out into a wide smile,   
maniac smile.  
  
Reaching out to his nipple, he dug the sharp claw of his thumb into his   
flesh and slowly opened a thin, bleeding wound across his fair chest,   
hissing at the exquisite pain he felt.  
  
"Do you want my blood? You got it! Do you want my soul?" he roared,   
shaking his fists at the bright satellite. "You got it, damn it!!"  
  
And then, he just let it all go.  
  
A last exhalation of air came out of his lungs, becoming white rivulets of   
steam into the cold air. Oz closed his yellow eyes, letting his head fall   
back as his mouth opened into a grimace that could be the moan of a dying   
man, or the one of a man on the brink of orgasm.  
  
The wolf was free, filling him, becoming one with him.  
  
He opened his eyes, and they blazed furious gold into the darkness of the   
night. Hair sprouted out all over his body, reddish-brown locks of silk   
covering his smooth fair skin as his muscles grew, over-sizing his tense   
skin, becoming thick and powerful.  
  
His whole body became larger, seven feet tall with broad shoulders and   
muscles like the one of a weight lifter.  
  
He heard a ripping sound and, for a second, he thought that it was his own   
skin breaking to show his new self. But then he realized that it was just   
his faded jeans, the ones that weren't baggy enough to contain his lupine   
form and were breaking under the pressure of his new, larger thighs.  
  
In the end, when his ears had retreated to the top of his head and his   
face turned into a sharp snout, a faithful resemblance of a wolf, the only   
thing covering his new lupine body were the tensed remains of those same   
jeans. They barely covered his crotch and upper tights.  
  
He thought he must look a little like the Incredible Hulk.  
  
But, the good thing was that he was still able to think. He was himself.   
Daniel Osborne. Musician. Werewolf. Oz.  
  
His snout parted into a wolfish smile and he raised his new face to his   
mother the moon. And then, his howl stabbed the night, shattering it into   
a thousand pieces of darkness.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
  
To be continued... 


	7. Part 7 of 10

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book III, part 7 of 10  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general   
corrections by Theo  
  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow   
kissing and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial,   
Land of 'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline   
to accommodate it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy'   
happened a lot later than it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are   
only tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of   
Highlander-style immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole   
'Immortals have no parents and are found in a little basket' is a... um,   
the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada', so let's just ignore it, OK?  
  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit,   
merely for the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander,   
Willow, Oz, Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle   
Gorch, Quentin Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property   
of Joss Whedon, Warner Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of   
Highlander and the characters mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda   
Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the Society of Watchers) are the   
property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the   
World Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are   
copyright of their respective rights owners.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language,   
so any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my   
wonderful beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please   
be kind with me. I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child,   
believe me.  
  
SUMMARY: Broderick Egoyan has carefully chosen the right moment to strike,   
when friends are against friends and all trust seems about to vanish   
between Slayerettes and Archangels. It's right when you think things   
couldn't get worse that they get worse.  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen,   
because it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book III  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as The Sergeant  
Benjamin Bratt as Santero  
Trevor Goddar as Backlash  
Dolph Lundgren as Havoc  
Rob Rowland as Chopper  
Jake Busey as Sniper  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Matthew Ferguson as Chip  
  
Bill Paxton as Major Stephen Marsden, USAF  
Tom Sizemore as Master Sergeant Ricky Perkins, USAF  
John Leguizamo as Airman First Class Charlie Martinelli, USAF  
Mario Lopez as Airman First Class Alonso 'Bear' Vasquez, USAF  
Patrick Labyorteaux as Sergeant Edwin Walters, USAF  
  
Richard Dean Anderson as Col. Jack O'Neill, USAF  
Michael Shanks as Dr. Daniel Jackson  
Amanda Tapping as Maj. Samantha Carter, USAF  
Christopher Judge as Teal'c  
Don S. Davis as Gen. George Hammond, USAF  
Teryl Rothery as Dr. Janet Fraiser  
Tom McBeath as Col. Harry Mayborne, USAF  
Peter Deluise as Airman Shepard, USAF  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
and  
  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Although he was far from being a mage, Giles had read and studied enough   
books on magic to consider himself erudite on the matter. That way, when   
he saw what the warlock was doing and the first signs of the spell he was   
casting made the soft hairs on the nape of his neck stand up, he knew what   
he had to do, and that he had very little time to do it.  
  
Letting the gun he had taken away from the Scandinavian mercenary fall to   
the floor, the British Watcher stood up to his feet. Struggling with the   
handcuffs still binding his wrists, he jumped on the bed and rolled over   
it, grabbing one of the edges of the wide mattress on his way.  
  
Giles yanked at it with all the strength he could find in his bruised body   
and, ignoring the piercing pain in his broken finger, he practically   
ripped the mattress off of the bedsprings as he jumped over Cordelia's   
body.  
  
He covered her with his own body, and let the mattress fall over their   
combined figures as a makeshift shield.  
  
"Don't move!" he told the young brunette, pinning her to the floor with   
his weight. Obeying him, Cordelia snuggled into his protecting embrace,   
reaching out to grab the mattress herself and help Giles to keep it into   
place.  
  
The mystical shock-wave came out the warlock's figure at that very moment,   
a flaming tornado that hit everything around him, making everything that   
wasn't nailed to the floor fly away and crash against the walls as it was   
engulfed into a flaming ball of blue fire.  
  
The French doors leading to the small balcony blew up into a thousand   
small fragments of glass and wood. The naked bedsprings were ripped from   
the floor and spun around in the air, twisting and snapping as the metal   
folded apparently of its own volition before heavily landing back on the   
ground.  
  
The lamp hanging from the ceiling over the warlock danced madly under the   
blow of the overheated wind, casting eerie shadows on the walls as the two   
small bedside lamps crashed against them, one of them miraculously landing   
with its lightbulb intact and still switched on.  
  
In a second, everything was turned into a broken mess. That is, everything   
but the two mercenaries still lying on the floor.  
  
As he saw the blue blast coming to him at the speed of sound, Santero   
instinctively raised his arms to cover his face as he adopted a fetal   
posture to minimize the impact of the shock-wave against his body.  
  
But, contrary to what he expected, the only thing he felt when the ball of   
blue energy reached his body was a soft and warm breeze flowing over his   
figure, and blowing his clothes and dark hair.  
  
Surprised, the Hispanic mercenary uncovered his face and looked around. He   
found much to his own amazement that both Havoc and himself seemed   
completely unharmed, when practically the rest of the room had been hit by   
a tropical hurricane. "What the...?"  
  
Neither Giles nor Cordelia had the luck of being protected from the magic   
blast, as the two mercenaries seemed to be.  
  
The shock wave impacted against the mattress, hitting them with the force   
of a pile-driver, pushing them back against the nearest wall. Their lungs   
were suffocated because of the overheated air of the room, and the cotton   
surface of the mattress was being licked by tongues of blue fire.  
  
Their entangled bodies slid over the carpeted floor, until Giles' back   
crashed against the wall with a dull thud. He had to fight to stay   
conscious, letting a moan of pain escape his lips as Cordelia quickly got   
out of his awkward embrace and kicked away the mattress, making it land on   
its burning surface so the flames were suffocated against the floor before   
they completely engulfed it.  
  
"Are you alright?" she asked the Watcher with worry as she helped him to   
his feet.  
  
Giles grunted, awkwardly bringing his handcuffed hands up to check the   
bump forming on the back of his head, right where he had banged it against   
the wall. "I won't lie to you, I've known better days."  
  
Then, thinking the same thought, the two of them turned their heads around   
to look at the one-eyed warlock, still floating in the middle of the room.   
He smiled to them, tilting his head to one side as Cordelia raised the   
Glock to aim at him again.  
  
"Well, well, it seems that the little lady can't learn the lesson. Haven't   
we done this before?"  
  
The brunette young woman half-closed her eyes, staring hard at the   
warlock, and then shook her head softly. "No," she whispered raggedly,   
"this is new."  
  
Cordelia lifted the gun over the warlock's head, aiming directly at the   
lamp hanging from the ceiling over him and fired only once.  
  
Caught by surprise, Swann lifted his one working eye and looked in   
open-mouthed astonishment as Cordelia's bullet severed the wire that held   
up the metallic lamp. It fell on him heavily, crashing him to the ground   
in the middle of an explosion of golden electric sparks and sharp glass   
fragments.  
  
"Wow," Giles whispered, arching his brow as he looked at the warlock's   
slumped figure over Cordelia's shoulder, "i-it's the only thing I can   
think of saying."  
  
As the warlock tried to stand up, shaking his head weakly, a trace of   
blood came out from the open wound on his temple and stained the whole   
side of his face.  
  
Leaving Giles' side, Cordelia jumped over him and retrieved the   
almost-forgotten cross from the floor, turning on her heel immediately   
afterwards. She was about to jump over Swann's body again when she stopped   
dead, biting her lower lip.  
  
"This is for ruining my friend's bedroom," she growled, savagely kicking   
the fallen man on the floor, right in his kidneys. "I helped to decorate   
it!"  
  
Arching his brow in wonder, and thinking something along the lines of   
'some things never change', Giles reached out for the brunette and   
practically dragged her away from the fallen man's figure to the door of   
the bedroom.  
  
He kept nervously eyeing how Santero was struggling to retrieve his lost   
rifle, trying to take it out from the remains of the shredded bed.   
"Cordelia! We have to get out of here!"  
  
Nodding, and after kicking Swann once more for good measure, Cordelia and   
Giles started to run towards the door with the intention of getting the   
hell away from there as fast a possible.  
  
But, even before they had taken a couple of steps, Swann waved weakly with   
his hand and the door closed by itself, in front of their eyes with a hard   
slap.  
  
With a grunt, Santero yanked at his rifle and finally freed it from the   
metallic grasp of the bedsprings, immediately shouldering it and firing a   
short burst of bullets that tore large pieces of plaster and wood from the   
wall beside the door. It rendered the Watcher and the former cheerleader   
as quiet as a couple of scared mice.  
  
"Quiet!" he shouted with angered voice as he laboriously got up, sliding   
his back up the wall. "And you... drop that pistol, bitch!"  
  
Closing her hazel eyes and clenching her teeth together to silence a   
curse, Cordelia let out a long and tired sigh and dropped the Glock to the   
carpeted floor, where it bounced softly until it remained still, with its   
butt slightly leaned against the instep of her bare right feet.  
  
"And now?" she asked softly, raising her arms in defeat.  
  
"Now you turn around," Santero told her as Swann slowly got up and he   
carefully shook Havoc with his foot, bringing him out of his state of   
unconsciousness. The Scandinavian man grunted in annoyance, and Santero   
kicked him painfully with the point of his boot, fully waking him up.  
  
"What?" Cordelia asked out loud, with mild amusement. "I thought that a   
coward like you would be accustomed to shooting women in the back."  
  
The Hispanic mercenary took a step forward, ready to strike her with the   
butt of his rifle when the one-eyed warlock grabbed him by the shoulder,   
keeping him from doing so.  
  
"What!?!" Santero roared, rudely shrugging his hand away.  
  
As he carefully wiped the bleeding wound on his temple with his linen   
handkerchief, Swann gave him an annoyed look. "I don't know what is more   
pathetic, the fact that she thinks that she can make you snap with a   
single insult, or the fact that she's right! I should have let you go,   
just to see what she was going to do."  
  
"As if you've done better," the mercenary growled at him. Nevertheless he   
kept his distance from the brunette and the middle-aged man, covering them   
with his HK carbine.  
  
"Any other bright ideas, Calamity Jane?" Giles asked her with a whisper.  
  
The brunette sent him a sideways glare and was about to shake her head   
when something caught her attention. A movement, a distorted reflection on   
the polished golden surface of the cross she was still holding. She smiled   
and steeled herself, trying to ignore the weakness of her legs.  
  
"Can we reach an agreement here, or is it too late for that, gentlemen?"   
she asked their captors over her shoulder, displaying her most charming   
smile, the same one that turned every male's bones into rubber.  
  
Both Santero and Swann raised similar eyebrows full of incredulity, but   
the warlock was the one to speak first. "Do you even have anything to   
negotiate with, young lady?"  
  
Without turning completely around, Cordelia waved the du Lac Cross softly.   
"Well, I still have this."  
  
The Hispanic mercenary snorted with sarcastic amusement, and shouldered   
his rifle. "Not for long, perra."  
  
The brunette frowned softly, and then looked at them with an expression   
that went quickly from disappointment to boredom. "Oh, then I guess I'll   
have to play the ace up my sleeve."  
  
The one-eyed warlock frowned slightly, and shook his head in mild   
confusion before smiling coldly at her. "I'm afraid I haven't seen enough   
TV, dear. What are you talking about?"  
  
"I guess she's talking about me," said a growling voice behind the warlock   
and the mercenary, startling both of them.  
  
The unlikely pair turned around in a flash, only to find themselves   
practically face to face with an impossibly large werewolf perched on the   
metallic banister of the balcony.  
  
The light of the moon outlined his figure, shining against the dark   
exterior through the broken frame of window. His hairy body was crouched   
in a predatory posture, as he held himself in equilibrium only with the   
aid of his feet and rear talons.  
  
The mythic animal smiled dangerously, showing them two rows of long, sharp   
and pointed canines. "But I prefer to think of myself as the wild card."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
The first thing about the werewolf that got Giles' attention was the fact   
that the soft hair covering his whole body was of a reddish-brown color,   
that was completely different from the dark gray one he was accustomed to.  
  
And it covered practically all of his body, falling down in long and   
soft-looking locks where it was more abundant on his forearms, the upper   
side of his back and bare chest. Everywhere except on top of his lupine   
head, where it proudly displayed a tuft of blue-dyed hair.  
  
He was larger than usual, too. Although it was difficult to calculate   
because he was still crouched down, Giles estimated that he had to be at   
least seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and bulging muscles that had   
to be powerful enough to classify him as a massive machine of destruction.  
  
Still, his semi-human features were clearly Oz's ones; when the werewolf   
tilted his large head to one side and his snout parted into a diabolically   
dangerous smile, the British Watcher caught the glimpse of gold coming   
from one of his pointed wolfish ears almost on top of his head.  
  
He realized that it was a debt to the three earrings the young man used to   
wear in said ear.  
  
This was Oz, after all. Or so it seemed, because Giles was starting to   
wonder if it wasn't him who had gone into another, completely different   
universe without noticing.  
  
"You're late," Cordelia told him scornfully, seemingly not impressed at   
all by her friend's new appearance. "What kept you?"  
  
Ignoring the mercenaries and the warlock as if they weren't there, Oz   
directed his golden eyes to the brunette young woman, the smirk that   
resembled an evil grin never leaving his thin wolfish lips. "Had a problem   
with the moon. But everything is under control now."  
  
He looked back at Swann and Santero, and his mouth parted in an impossibly   
long and hungry smile that displayed his long canines proudly. His whole   
face seemed to melt and change, as his mouth transformed into a sharp   
snout and his features turned even more lupine.  
  
"Everything is sooo cool..." he growled.  
  
"Well, what now?" the one-eyed warlock asked with a bored expression,   
turning around to look at the brunette, seemingly accepting her as the one   
at charge.  
  
Cordelia shrugged softly. "Either we have a deal, or we stick to plan B."  
  
"Plan B?"  
  
She nodded. "We start killing each other like crazy."  
  
For a second, the silence was as thick as a brick wall and it seemed that   
there was nothing other than the magnetic embrace of his only blue eye   
boring into her hazel ones. Then, Swann smiled and nodded softly. "Plan B   
it is, then."  
  
And, in a whisper, they all were moving again.  
  
The warlock turned around as he lifted his joined hands and aimed with   
them at the werewolf, a blue glow enveloping his body. Beside him, Santero   
shouldered his rifle and opened automatic fire, sending a burning cloud of   
lead against Giles and Cordelia.  
  
His Scandinavian partner, who had apparently succeeded in recovering his   
wits, dived for his forgotten pistol and raised its massive barrel to aim   
at the brunette and her middle-aged companion.  
  
Santero's HK G36K roared much in the same way that its owner was doing,   
and the air of the room was once more filled with the pungent scent of   
burnt cordite as his weapon ejected a wave of empty golden shells.  
  
The blue glow seemed to solidify around Swann, forming what looked like a   
trapezoidal glass armor around him. As a blue beam of energy erupted from   
his linked hands in search for the werewolf's head, Oz simply jumped   
towards him, his flexed and powerful legs boosting him effortlessly into   
the room.  
  
A growl escaped his lips as he flipped in the air, letting the shining ray   
pass below his moving figure. He spun around and landed on the warlock's   
chest like the wrath of God itself, the impact of his bare feet pushing   
him to the floor as the glass breastplate of his magic armor shattered   
into a intricate web of cracks.  
  
Cordelia, moving at a speed and precision that surprised even herself,   
pushed her discarded Glock with the instep of her foot, making it jump up   
and grabbing it smoothly by its grip in mid-air as she spun around and   
placed her right foot on Giles' figure.  
  
Pushing him away from the firing range of the Hispanic mercenary and   
propelling herself back and away with the same movement, the brunette   
Amazon spun in the air, firing twice against Santero as she dodged his   
shots before landing on the semi-burnt mattress of Giles' bed.  
  
Her bullets hit Santero's rifle right on the frame, on its firing   
mechanism, ripping sparks from its metallic surface and making the   
mercenary recoil in surprise.  
  
Pushed away by Cordelia, Giles' back collided against the wall and he   
asked himself whether it was 'Englishman Bashing Day' or something.  
  
"Giles!" the brunette called his attention as she unexpectedly turned her   
gun towards him. "Hands up!"  
  
Acting merely on instinct, Giles obeyed her, lifting his handcuffed hands   
over his head and closing his eyes with dread. Closing her left eye and   
aiming carefully in a heartbeat, she pulled the trigger only once, and the   
bullet hit the chain of the handcuffs, breaking it with a spark and   
freeing the Watcher's hands.  
  
"Aagh!!" he exclaimed, shaking his hands. "That hurt!"  
  
Roaring and with a flood of foam spraying out his jaws, Oz slashed madly   
at the warlock's mystical helmet with his razor-sharp claws, ripping   
sparks from it and discovering that the magic glass was as shock-resistant   
as steel.  
  
Growling, and pinning him to the floor with the weight of his massive   
body, Oz brought his right fist back and plunged it down, smashing the   
plate covering it and shattering it into a web of cracks.  
  
As the red-haired werewolf raised his fist for a second strike, Swann   
managed to take his left arm out from under Oz's figure and introduce it   
between their bodies. The glass melted and rearranged seemingly by its own   
volition, the straight plates covering his arm enlarging and transforming   
into a long curved blade.  
  
Slashing wildly, the warlock opened a long wound along Oz's chest that   
started to bleed immediately, red drops raining down and splattering the   
surface of his glowing armor.  
  
The werewolf wailed in pain and leaned backwards, trying to dodge the arcs   
traced by the glass blade. This allowed Swann to extricate his legs from   
beneath Oz's figure, and place them on his chest to push him away. Then,   
pushing against the carpet with his shoulder-blades, he flipped himself to   
his feet.  
  
Stumbling backwards, Oz traced the open slash on his chest with the clawed   
index finger of his right hand and brought it to his wet snout, carefully   
sniffing at it. Then, allowing his body to go slightly back to his human   
form, just enough so he could speak, he licked his blood-stained   
fingertip.  
  
"Not bad," Oz growled with a mildly amused smile. "Enhanced strength and   
speed?"  
  
"And a few other things," the warlock returned his smile, adopting a   
fighting stance and making the right arm of his glowing armor turn into a   
refracted twin of his left blade.  
  
Softly, as if the armor was made of water, the cracks covering its   
breastplate and helmet rearranged together and disappeared. "Want to play,   
doggie?"  
  
Oz smiled once again, nodding softly. "I love to play."  
  
The werewolf jumped forward without warning, his features changing back to   
full lupine form in mid-jump, and his clawed hands captured the warlock's   
wrists, keeping the blades away from his body as his left leg emerged like   
a missile, hitting him in the chin.  
  
If Swann hadn't been wearing the magic glass armor, Oz was sure that his   
blow would have ripped his head off his shoulders.  
  
Letting his risen leg fall like an axe, the werewolf hit the warlock on   
the shoulder, crackling his armor once again, and forcing him to make an   
effort not to fall to his knees.  
  
Without freeing his grasp on his wrists and keeping his left leg leaned on   
his shoulder, Oz raised his right one, leaning it the same way on Swann's   
free shoulder. Capturing his head between his thighs, the werewolf let   
himself fall down on his back and flipped the warlock's body over him,   
launching his armored form against the near wall.  
  
Smoothly spinning like a winch and standing up, werewolf Oz blew an errant   
red lock out of his golden eyes and smiled widely, showing his sharp   
fangs. "I love to play."  
  
Once she had freed Giles, Cordelia noticed the huge blonde man moving   
beside her and rolled over her shoulder, making the bedsprings creak as   
she spun around and raised her semiautomatic pistol.  
  
She found herself face to face with the Scandinavian mercenary. Or, more   
precisely, with the huge muzzle of his Desert Eagle, as she leaned her   
Glock on the man's chin. Not even thinking about it, Cordelia pulled the   
trigger.  
  
And her gun clicked empty.  
  
"Oh, rats!" she exclaimed, looking at her useless pistol with annoyance   
before throwing it away.  
  
Havoc chuckled amusedly and cocked up his Desert Eagle, leaning the wide   
exit-hole on her forehead. "Any famous last words?"  
  
Cordelia sent him a hard stare that carried enough venom to kill a herd of   
African elephants.  
  
"Yeah, screw you!" she exclaimed, suddenly letting herself fall to her   
back at the same time that she grabbed his gun-wrist and, digging her   
nails onto his tender flesh, lifted her legs and entangled her smooth legs   
around his arm, effectively trapping it.  
  
With a cat-like growl, the brunette twisted his hand painfully and his   
shot was lost over her head, ripping a large chunk of masonite from the   
ceiling.  
  
Flexing her right leg over his shoulder, Cordelia kicked him hard across   
the face repeatedly, not less than five times before pushing him away from   
her and, disentangling her legs from his arm, rolling over her back into a   
standing position.  
  
Havoc shook his head to clear it, and leaned back in time to dodge   
Cordelia's foot, as the former cheerleader attacked him with a crescent   
kick.  
  
"Shouldn't you be in school or something?" he growled with annoyance as he   
blocked her next blow.  
  
"I already graduated, buddy," she told him as she spun around and hit him   
with a devastating high kick. "And with straight A's!"  
  
Santero fought with the firing mechanism of his rifle, fumbling with it   
until he discovered that the young brunette's shots had folded the carcass   
enveloping it, rendering the weapon useless.  
  
Stifling a curse, the Hispanic mercenary threw the HK aside. With his eyes   
nailed onto Cordelia's dancing figure as she thrust and parried with his   
partner, the two of them immersed in furious hand-to-hand combat, he took   
a fan-knife from the pocket of his jacket and bared its sharp blade with a   
flourished movement of his hand.  
  
"Time to end this," he whispered, moving towards Cordelia unprotected   
back.  
  
Or he would have done so, if Giles hadn't grabbed him by the shoulder,   
making him turn around.  
  
"Dance with me first, please," the British Watcher told him before   
smashing his face with a hard punch.  
  
Santero staggered back with an open-mouthed expression before charging   
back against the Watcher, tracing short slashes and stabs with his knife   
that Giles dodged one by one, leaning to one side and the other.  
  
"Is this all you can do?" Giles asked the mercenary, capturing his wrist   
when he tried to stab his throat and twisting his hand as he ignored the   
pain of his broken little finger. "I'm not impressed at all, young man."  
  
"Oh, please," Santero said, as he slammed his elbow against Giles' face.   
"Don't patronize me, viejo."  
  
Shaking his head and spitting a mix of blood and saliva without releasing   
the Hispanic man's arm, Giles kneed him in the gut and quickly hacked with   
the edge of his hand at his unprotected throat.  
  
"Still unimpressed," he spat at him before punching him again.  
  
With a roar, werewolf Oz charged like a freight train against the armored   
warlock, tackling him and lifting his frame on his shoulder as he dragged   
him against the closed door of the ample bedroom.  
  
Screaming in rage and uselessly hitting the werewolf's broad back with his   
armored fists, Swann heard more than felt when his back collided with the   
door.  
  
This one exploded into wooden splinters and their entangled frames fell   
down the stairs leading to the lower floor, rolling down in a shapeless   
bulk and grunting as their bodies painfully hit the edges of the steps and   
finally crashed into Giles' living-room, smashing his coffee table.  
  
Before the warlock could recuperate, Oz quickly gained the upper hand and   
pinned his body to the ground, his bent knee firmly anchored on the small   
of his back as he grabbed him by the back of his glass helmet. He lifted   
his head from the floor, only to smash it down with all his strength.  
  
Growling, and ignoring the yelps of pain coming from the human, the   
werewolf repeated his action, savagely pounding his glass-covered face   
against the wooden floor. Until it finally yielded, and shattered into a   
thousand fragments that, once abandoned the helmet's frame, turned into   
rivulets of blue smoke that vanished into the air.  
  
Spinning him around, Oz grabbed him by the breast-plate and effortlessly   
lifted him off the floor, crashing him against the near wall. Bringing his   
clawed fist back, the werewolf got ready to mangle his unprotected face   
with a devastating punch.  
  
Swann, twin traces of blood coming out the corner of his lips and the   
wound opened on his temple, couldn't do anything more than to look back at   
him, his lonely blue eye shining with a mix of fury and fear.  
  
"Go ahead, if you have the guts," he challenged the werewolf as he slowly   
moved his right hand by his side, drawing a complex symbol in the air with   
his fingers and trying that the whole action passed unnoticed at Oz's   
yellow eyes.  
  
But there were very few things that could pass unnoticed to his sharp   
senses. The silent noise of his bone-joints and the tendons, the swift   
movement of the air sliding over them and, above all, the pungent smell of   
the man's sweat.  
  
The warlock was scared. And that idea made Oz feel surprisingly close to   
being really pleased.  
  
Moving so fast that Swann didn't see what he was doing until it was too   
late, the werewolf released his breast plate and, capturing his moving   
hand, twisted it until, shattering the glowing armor with his mighty   
grasp.  
  
Oz snorted disdainfully, his wet nostrils flaring and he relaxed his   
fisted hand, which was still ready to deliver a killing blow.  
  
"Nah," he growled, "too easy."  
  
He punched the warlock right in the middle of his face, quick and strong   
but still merciful. He controlled the force of the blow so it would leave   
the one-eyed man unconscious but wouldn't kill him, no matter what his   
primal impulses were telling him to do, no matter how much he actually   
wanted to savor the taste of his flesh.  
  
He was a werewolf, but still... he wasn't a monster.  
  
Swann's head jerked backwards under the impact of his fist and the back of   
the warlock's skull banged against the wall, his glass armor shattering   
into pieces and leaving a rounded imprint on the wall. Then, rolling up   
his only blue eye until it was completely white, he fell forward on Oz's   
muscled arms.  
  
Yielding under the pressure of one particular primal impulse, the   
red-haired werewolf grabbed him before he fell completely to the ground.   
As the glowing glass armor dissolved into a cloud of blue steam, he   
effortlessly lifted the warlock's limp body over his head, flexing his   
powerful muscles.  
  
He let his head fall backwards and howled his victory, the walls trembling   
under the thunder of his roar.  
  
Meanwhile, on the second floor, Cordelia was proverbially starting to   
sweat bullets to remain intact in her particular fight with the   
white-blonde man who, although obviously less quick and agile than her,   
seemed to have the resistance and capacity to absorb blows of a rhino.  
  
The brunette had lost count of the times she had side-kicked him, and the   
man remained as whole and unfazed as if he was made of concrete instead of   
flesh and bone.  
  
She was even beginning to get cramps, and every inch of her body hurt like   
hell. Cordelia knew that she had to do something, and do it pretty fast,   
or the man would have the upper hand in the fight, and she doubted he   
would be as merciful or concerned about taking human lives as she herself   
had been with the warlock before.  
  
"Are you getting tired, baby?" Havoc said, reading her mind.  
  
Too tired to even answer with a wisecrack, Cordelia grunted and dodged a   
hard right that went in search of her head.  
  
Letting out a sigh of tiredness, she spun around her left leg and tried to   
hit him on his shoulder with a high kick. But the man read her intentions   
and raised his arm, blocking her strike and capturing her leg.  
  
"Shit," she whispered.  
  
Smiling cruelly, Havoc reached out and grabbed her by her slender neck,   
raising her much lighter body from the floor and slamming her back against   
the wall as his grasp tightened, closing her windpipe and choking the air   
out of her lungs.  
  
Leaning closer to her, so close in fact that when he spoke to her his lips   
grazed her own, the Scandinavian mercenary snorted.  
  
"You know?" he asked her. "It's a shame we don't have enough time, because   
I would love to check if you're also a cat in the sack."  
  
Struggling inside his large hand's grasp to breathe some fresh air,   
Cordelia hit him with her knees, trying to find a weak point under his   
ribs as Rachel has taught her to do. The man grunted and grimaced, but the   
strength of his hand didn't weaken around her throat.  
  
Soon, Cordelia's eyes rolled up and her vision started to blur, as her   
empty lungs burned for lack of air. Raising her arms, she grabbed the   
man's forearm and dug her nails on the fabric of his jacket.  
  
"Stop fighting it," the man told her with a half smile, "this is the end,   
bitch."  
  
Something creaked inside Cordelia's neck and, as she bit the inside of her   
cheek, concentrating on the pain not to fall unconscious, a thread of   
blood came out the corner of her mouth, sliding down her chin.  
  
Then, she brought her hands to the man's face and pushed him with all her   
remaining strength, her sharp nails scratching his skin and her thumbs   
pressing his eyes into his skull's sockets.  
  
Havoc screamed in sudden pain and freed her before she could implode his   
eyeballs, recoiling away from her and holding his face as blood started to   
flow from the open wounds caused by Cordelia's nails.  
  
The brunette felt to the floor, coughing heavily and holding her strangled   
neck as she fought to recover her breathing rhythm.  
  
"Motherfucking bitch!!" the Scandinavian mercenary roared at her, his   
sight covered by a red veil of blood. "You've blinded me!!"  
  
Letting out an animalistic roar of rage, Cordelia stood up and run to him,   
closing the short space that separated them with fast steps. She was a   
meter from him when she began a crescent kick, her right leg going up like   
a lightning bolt.  
  
"Do!!" she shouted, as her bare foot crashed against his chin, making his   
head bend backwards.  
  
"Not!!" Landing smoothly, the brunette spun around in a flash and   
practically buried her foot into the man's stomach, making him fold over.  
  
"Call!!" Grabbing him by the short strands of his white-blonde hair, she   
kneed him in the face, turning his nose into a bleeding resemblance of a   
potato.  
  
"Me!!" As the mercenary staggered back, holding his face, Cordelia kicked   
him brutally in the balls, eliciting an agonizing moan from his mouth.  
  
"Bitch!!" she finally shouted, jumping in the air and tracing out a   
demolishing spinning kick that hit the Scandinavian mercenary in the side   
of his head, and sent his large frame spinning in the air like a twister   
before painfully landing onto the broken remains of Giles' bed.  
  
Cordelia fell to her bare feet, and had to make a strong effort not to   
sink to the floor. She was beyond exhausted, she was completely drained;   
her body full of bruises and cuts, her clothes torn and ruined and her   
lungs still aching as if she was breathing liquid fire.  
  
But, in spite of all that, when she looked down at Havoc's defeated form   
as the much bigger man fought to remain conscious, she couldn't help but   
smile and felt the fire of the victory starting to pump into her system.  
  
Now, if Valentino would make combat clothes, she could even get accustomed   
to this.  
  
With his armed hand still captured in Giles' grasp, Santero brought his   
other fist back, ready to deliver a hard punch to the older man's face.   
But when he did so, his fist was blocked by the Watcher's open hand, which   
he immediately closed, effectively rendering his two hands useless.  
  
Far from letting this discourage him, the Hispanic mercenary launched   
himself forward and head-butted the middle-aged man, eliciting a moan of   
pain from him and making him stagger back.  
  
Feeling the grasp of his hands weakening, Santero leaned his right foot   
flat on the Watcher's stomach and pushed him away, freeing himself. Giles   
fell to the floor on his behind, still a little dazed by the younger man's   
last strike.  
  
As he saw him turning his blade down to a stabbing position and launching   
himself over him, the Watcher searched the floor with his hand, blindly   
looking for something he could use as a weapon.  
  
Almost of their own volition, his fingers closed around something hard and   
cold, something that, when he yanked at it and swung around to avoid the   
mercenary's stab, fell surprisingly heavy on his hand.  
  
He saw a flash of gold and then he hit the blade hand of the man, ripping   
the fan-knife from it. The cross. It was the same one that they'd come   
searching for. The same one that was causing all this madness. The du Lac   
Cross.  
  
Santero dived for his weapon and Giles raised the cross over his head as   
he stood up to his knees. Taking a hold of the knife, the mercenary turned   
around and stabbed the air with it, searching for his middle-aged   
opponent's gut as he raised his other arm to protect his head from the   
make-shift mace as it fell to his head.  
  
Seeing this, Giles moved one of his hands away from the cross and captured   
the man's upcoming hand, grabbing him by the wrist just as the sharp point   
of the blade opened its way through the thick layers of tweed and pierced   
his skin.  
  
Santero stopped the Watcher's strike with his forearm, grunting in pain at   
the hard impact, and grabbed the cross, fighting with the older man for   
its possession.  
  
With the blade one inch deep inside his flesh, Giles felt a stinging pain,   
but he refused to let the man's hand go as the mercenary kept on pushing   
with all his strength, trying to finish his stab once and for all.  
  
Fighting on their knees with barely inches separating their faces, trying   
to stop each other, they locked eyes, Giles' deep green orbs boring into   
the mercenary's dark brown ones with quiet and silent fury.  
  
There was a moment of absolute silence, in which they measured each other   
for the very first time as only two persons fighting for their lives can   
do.  
  
Santero looked into his green eyes and saw his determination, hard as   
steel, his untamable spirit and the strength of his beliefs fueling him to   
the very limits of human resistance.  
  
This man would go to the end of the world for those beliefs, he would kill   
or even die for them.  
  
And that was what differentiated them and which, in the end, decided the   
result of the fight.  
  
Pushing with all his strength, Giles extracted the blade from his side,   
stained with his blood, and pulled back the man's hand, struggling with   
him in a deadly arm-wrestle.  
  
The mercenary grunted, and then changed his tactics. Instead of pushing,   
Santero yanked hardly and freed his wrist from the Watcher's hand. Then,   
with a grunt, he stabbed forward again, this time with so much strength   
that Giles knew he wouldn't be able to block the strike.  
  
And that was when Cordelia entered the equation.  
  
Appearing out of nowhere right after defeating Havoc, the former   
cheerleader ran towards them from the Hispanic mercenary's back and let   
herself fall to her knees, skidding on them until she practically crashed   
against his broad back.  
  
Reaching out with her hand, the brunette captured the mercenary's   
still-high arm, as she surrounded his neck with her other hand and started   
to strangle him.  
  
With his eyes wide open in surprise, Giles raised his hand and took a hold   
on the man's armed limb and, as he and Cordelia tried to disarm him, he   
struggled to take the cross away from him.  
  
But still, Santero seemed to be as stubborn as the two of them and refused   
to let it go.  
  
"Just drop it, you pillock!" the Watcher grunted, pushing his arm away.  
  
"Y una mierda," the mercenary growled in ragged Spanish, applying even   
more pressure on his attack, bringing the blade dangerously close to   
Giles' features.  
  
"Damn," Cordelia whispered, her tired arms too weak to be nothing more   
than a psychological help, "what kind of food do you eat? Power bars or   
something?"  
  
With a roar, Santero stood up fueled by a burst of pure rage, bringing   
both Cordelia and Giles with him and spun around, finally ripping the   
cross from Giles' hand and throwing the middle-aged Watcher away.  
  
Giles landed with a dull thud on the hard floor. The golden cross flew   
away, spinning madly in the air and bouncing on the carpeted floor until   
it stopped right at Havoc's feet.  
  
Hanging from Santero's neck, Cordelia let out a squeak of surprise as the   
mercenary stood up and flipped her over his shoulder, freeing his neck and   
making her land painfully on her back on the hard floor.  
  
The brunette saw stars and squirmed in pain, while the Hispanic man fell   
on her, holding the blade for a deadly stab.  
  
At the last possible second, Giles jumped back into the fight and grabbed   
Santero's arm, keeping him from harming the young woman.  
  
"Cordelia," he whispered weakly at her, "get out of here. Now!"  
  
Cordelia tried to answer him with a no, but she wasn't able because   
Santero's hand closed around her already-sore throat, once more choking   
the air out of her lungs. This time, with her strength and resistance   
reduced to practically zero, she knew that she wouldn't be able to resist   
it.  
  
Without freeing his armed wrist, Giles desperately punched the mercenary's   
broad back, hitting him with his closed fist and with his elbow, but it   
was like hitting a brick wall. "Let her go, you bastard!!"  
  
Santero, pained but fanatically resolved to keep them out of the game,   
only smiled, ignoring the British man's feeble attempts at bringing him   
down, and kept on pressing his hand down, bringing the sharp blade closer   
and closer to Cordelia's chest.  
  
The brunette moaned in pain, struggling to find a way out but unable to   
tear her hazel eyes away from the shining blade of the knife. Ten inches.   
Nine inches. Eight inches. Slowly, without pause. Seven. Six. Five...   
  
And then Santero's jacket opened and she saw it. The Hispanic mercenary's   
sidearm, neatly holstered and hanging upside-down from her point of view,   
under his left arm.  
  
Using the very last remains of her adrenaline reserves, Cordelia brought   
her right leg up and kicked the mercenary in the face, stunning him for a   
second so short that it seemed nonexistent; but which was long enough for   
her to reach into his jacket, and grab his semiautomatic pistol.  
  
Yanking at it blindly, Cordelia drew it out from its holster and leaned   
its muzzle on the mercenary's chest, praying to God that it had a bullet   
loaded in the chamber.  
  
A moment of peace. Brown eyes reflected on hazel ones. The sound of a   
ragged exhalation. And so much hate, so intense that it could be felt into   
the air like a miasma of sticky fog.  
  
"Bitch," Santero simply said to her, his voice full of venom and his   
spittle splattering her face.  
  
Cordelia pulled the trigger.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Beneath the front wheel of his bike the asphalt was nothing more than a   
dark blur of movement as the powerful Yamaha brought him closer and closer   
to his destination. Xander felt the full strength of the wind in his face,   
which was only covered by a pair of expensive Hobbie Milazzo sunglasses to   
protect his eyes from the sun's effect.  
  
He wasn't very sure if the roar that was filling his ears was because of   
the action of the powerful 4-cylinder engine, or his own blood pumping a   
wild storm inside his veins.  
  
He knew that what he was doing, barely keeping a fraction of his attention   
on the handling of the mechanical beast between his legs, was almost   
suicidal.  
  
But the truth was, that he couldn't reunite the dispersed fragments of his   
mind enough to do anything more than to keep on riding in auto mode. Giles   
kidnapped. Buffy and Willow hurt.  
  
And Cordelia... well, better not to even go there, he could drive himself   
crazy if he started trying to figure what was going on.  
  
The only thing he was sure of, almost fanatically convinced, was that   
everything that had happened in the last few days was linked. Faith. The   
confrontation with Buffy. And now this...  
  
It just couldn't be a coincidence and, although he couldn't figure how it   
was all related, he was sure that he had to find out. Or their lives, his   
friends', his family's would be in much more danger than what they already   
were.  
  
"Alexander?" Crystal's gentle voice came from the headphone inside his   
right hear, barely audible over the wind's howl and the roar of the   
engine. "Can you hear me?"  
  
Sighing and handling the bike only with his right hand, Xander reached to   
his right ear and adjusted the electronic device, trying to improve the   
hearing. He dared to take a short look over his shoulder and found that   
the tall Texan's cherry-red Pathfinder was only a couple of yards behind   
the taillight of his Yamaha, moving at top speed.  
  
"Affirmative. I hear you, Cris," he said, turning his sunglass-covered   
eyes to the dark road. He had to make an effort to remember that he hadn't   
had to shout to make the red-haired witch hear him. "What's up?"  
  
"We just had a call from Rachel," she told him, and her guarded tone spoke   
volumes in Xander's ears, telling him that the news wasn't good. "They're   
heading to the hospital."  
  
Xander clenched his teeth together and cursed under his breath, wishing he   
had a wall at hand to punch.  
  
"Willow?" he asked succinctly, managing to keep his tone controlled and   
professional.  
  
"Yes," the witch spoke succinctly. "Some kind of magical attack, Rachel is   
not sure. Xander..."  
  
"I know, I know," he whispered, his heart breaking with the decision he   
was suddenly facing.  
  
Crystal would be of great help taking care of Willow's wounds if they were   
in fact of supernatural origin, but if there was a mage or any other kind   
of practitioner of the magic arts amongst the attackers, her aid would be   
even more needed there.  
  
Once more, like a hundred times before since he'd accepted the command of   
the team, he had to choose between his heart and his duty. And, like in   
all those times, he knew there was no possible choice.  
  
"What's our ETA to Giles' house?" he asked.  
  
"Seven minutes," Kyle's voice informed him, making himself heard for the   
first time. "Six if you start ignoring the traffic lights."  
  
Six minutes. It seemed like a whole lifetime to the young vampire.  
  
"OK, we'll stick to the plan and hope that it won't take us very long.   
However, I want you ready to get to the hospital as soon as I tell you so,   
do you copy me, Cris?"  
  
"I do, Alexander," she said, as formally as always, "you just say the   
word."  
  
"Five minutes, boss," Kyle announced.  
  
Xander clenched his teeth even tighter and crouched behind the handlebars,   
wishing he could make the bike go even faster just with the mere strength   
of his will.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
They came into the duplex apartment without knocking, moving in a silence   
so absolute that it seemed unnatural as they moved along the narrow   
entrance and into the living room without exchanging a single word.  
  
They just didn't need them, between these two brothers they were more of   
an impediment than an advantage.  
  
Nevertheless, no matter how silent they seemed to be, the red-haired   
werewolf had noticed their presence even before they got close to the main   
room of the apartment. And it hadn't been with his ears, not even with his   
sharp nose, not with any one of his physical senses.  
  
It had been something deep inside him, a primal sixth sense that was older   
than human civilization had made the hair on his back stand up and had   
produced a growl from his throat that was menacing and frightened at the   
same time.  
  
Very slowly, as the two black men entered into the ample living room and   
separated, starting to walk around the red-haired werewolf, Oz carefully   
dropped Swann's still-unconscious form to the floor and crouched down into   
a defensive posture, eyeing them warily and growling all the way.  
  
He saw his own reflection in the men's sunglasses and sniffed cautiously   
at their direction, baring his fangs at them in a truly animalistic style.  
  
Cats. They smelled like cats. Perverse. Dangerous. Astute.  
  
He didn't like cats. Not at all.  
  
"Doggie, doggie," the taller man whispered at him, letting out a   
high-pitched guffaw that sounded like the one of a hyena. "Doggie, doggie,   
doggie..."  
  
Werewolf Oz growled at him. The man hissed, his teeth so white that they   
seemed fake, artificial. Across the room, almost at Oz's back, the shorter   
man, tilted his head to one side and hissed exactly like his brother had   
done, his teeth as white, the same tendrils of saliva joining his upper   
and lower jaw. He spread out his arms, curling his hands into twisted   
claws.  
  
Oz looked at him with blazing yellow eyes and bit the empty air in a   
menacing demonstration, the clasping sound caused by the closing of his   
mighty jaws thundering in the dim darkness of the room.  
  
"Young you are," the shorter man, the one with the leather clothes and the   
Maori-like tattoos said with a strange growling accent. "Weak. For this   
not prepared. Should go now."  
  
"Stay," the taller, hair-colored man retorted in a begging tone, as he   
licked his lips mockingly. "Me hungry. Tender you look. Oh, please, stay."  
  
Tilting his large head to one side, Oz snorted and allowed his features to   
melt back to a semi-human state so he could speak. "Are the two of you   
part of a Yoda revival, or is it just that you failed English grammar in   
high school?"  
  
The two strangers hissed at the same time and Oz shook his head, letting   
out a sigh. "Guess they're not Star Wars fans."  
  
Talon and Rush looked at each other and the shorter and older man nodded   
imperceptibly, giving a sign to his brother. They moved in perfect   
synchrony, advancing towards the semi-turned werewolf with movements so   
fast and smooth that they seemed made of water, their arms extended and   
their hands curved into claws.  
  
Seeing this, Oz stood up at the same time that he morphed back to his most   
lupine self, only to discover that, no matter how fast he was, they were   
even faster.  
  
The red-haired werewolf felt a burning pain in his chest and back as the   
two strangers slashed them at the same time, their nails, hard and sharp   
as talons, ripping his thick-haired skin and drawing his blood.  
  
He only was able to perceive a flash of white out of the corner of his   
eye, as he saw the edged smile of the taller man when he passed by his   
side in a blur of movement. But he could have sworn his mouth was full of   
pointed fangs, smaller but much more pointer than his own.  
  
Oz swung his arms around, trying to hit them, but his clawed fists only   
hit empty air again and again as the two strangers moved around him like a   
couple of ghosts, slashing him, cutting him with their claws and opening   
bleeding wounds on his flesh.  
  
The werewolf roared in rage and pain, madly swinging his arms around and   
shaking every time that one of them stroked him. He was trapped and, in   
spite of the red veil covering his eyes and clouding his mind, he knew it.  
  
"Good doggie, pretty doggie, wanna play, doggie?" Rush sang amusedly, as   
his talons drew bloody lines on the werewolf's body. "Chase the ball,   
doggie! Get it!"  
  
"No!" Oz roared as he jumped in the air and grabbed the lamp hanging from   
the ceiling, praying for it to withstand his massive weight, and suddenly   
opened his legs spread wide, spinning around and kicking both men in their   
faces at the same time, throwing them away. "Get you this!!"  
  
Feeling the lamp yielding under his weight, Oz released it and fell to his   
bare feet as the two strangers flipped into the air. Leaning on opposite   
walls, they launched themselves back against him with an agility that   
seemed physically impossible.  
  
This time, however, Oz was ready and he grabbed the taller, hair-colored   
man by his throat, making him spin around and crashing his body against   
his brother's upcoming one.  
  
Talon was sent tumbling against the larger couch and he ended up on it   
with so much force, that the impact knocked the piece of furniture around.   
Oz, never releasing his grip on the taller man's neck, pushed him back and   
roughly slammed him against the wall.  
  
Oz hit his face with a punch, making his nose explode and ripping his   
mirror-sunglasses off his eyes. Rush snarled at him, struggling to get   
free but the werewolf only increased the strength of his grip on the black   
man's neck, ignoring the burning pain that crossed his body when he   
slashed madly at him with his sharp claws.  
  
Then he noticed his eyes. Deep jade-green irises with elongated pupils,   
like the ones of a feline. In front of his eyes, as he still struggled   
inside his grasp, Rush started to change, his features morphing as if his   
flesh was melted wax.  
  
Pointy ears that retreated to the top of his head as pitch black, short   
and velvety fur sprouted out of every squared inch of his dark skin. A   
nose that flattened before coming out when his mouth became a round snout,   
its color changing to a pinky shade that was almost ridiculous in the   
middle of that, suddenly feline, face.  
  
The muscles on his body, already hard and built enough to be taken in   
consideration, tensed and hardened, expanding under his furry skin and Oz   
was able to feel the tendons on his neck becoming steel wires under his   
hand.  
  
Growling, the young werewolf banged the stranger's head against the wall   
with enough force to dig a hole in the plaster.  
  
But it only seemed to get Rush even angrier than what he was, as he   
redoubled his efforts, madly slashing at Oz with his elongated claws.  
  
Ignoring the pain and the taste of his own blood on his lips when the man   
cut him across the face, leaving three parallel lines of blood in it, Oz   
tightened his grasp and yanked violently at him.  
  
He dragged his struggling body across the whole length of the room, until   
he crashed him against the opposite wall, making the whole room tremble   
with the impact.  
  
At his back, a growling purr was heard that made him turn around with a   
meaningful roar of warning, still holding the tall, turning man by his   
neck. Talon leaped out from behind the overturned couch and landed   
smoothly over it into a crouched predatory posture, his features as   
changed as his brother's, his eyes blazing the same green fire full of   
venom and hate.  
  
With an thundering feline roar, Talon jumped over Oz and the young   
werewolf had to let Rush go, raising his arms to protect himself as the   
shorter man landed on him, twisting and struggling with him like a cat.  
  
Pushed backwards and to the floor with the force of the impact, Oz felt   
the man's claws digging on his shoulders as he scratched his furry abdomen   
with his rear talons, the boots he had been wearing seemingly vanished.  
  
Everything was reduced to a blur of movement, to twisted and entangled   
bodies as the werewolf and the feline-man rolled on the floor, neither of   
them inclined to let the other go. Slashing at each other with their   
respective sets of claws, biting each other, the metallic taste and smell   
of the warm blood driving them crazy with bloodlust.  
  
They struggled on the floor, roaring, growling, biting, ripping and   
slashing until, finally, Rush came out of his state of   
semi-unconsciousness. As Oz pinned his brother to the floor, ready to   
smash his face with his clawed hand, he jumped on the werewolf's back with   
a loud hiss, savagely digging his claws and talons on his flesh.  
  
The werewolf howled in pain and promptly stood up, shaking and trying to   
shrug his attacker off his back, madly slashing the empty air with his   
powerful arms. But Rush was firmly nailed to him, and the hold of his   
sharp claws on Oz's flesh didn't weaken.  
  
Far from that; the feline-man seized his chance and, as the werewolf tried   
to reach out for him and howled in pain, he sunk his pointed fangs on the   
exposed area of Oz's shoulder.  
  
A crunching sound was heard as his flesh broke and a spray of blood   
erupted from the wound, followed by a thick flood that ran down the   
werewolf's shoulder, drenching the curly red hair of his chest and back.  
  
Oz's scream thundered in the air, a surprisingly perfect mix of human and   
animal pain and he fell to his knees, the force quickly leaving his   
supernatural body.  
  
The feline-man leaped off of his back, his thin animal lips twisted into   
the parody of a grin, the werewolf's blood staining his whole snout. Oz   
leaned with his hands on the floor, fighting to remain conscious as he   
felt his features melting back to a semi-human form by themselves.  
  
He raised his still-yellow eyes and saw how the two brothers moved around   
him slowly, crawling on the floor on his hands and foot like tigers   
circling an exhausted prey, getting ready to launch themselves into the   
final, mortal attack.  
  
With his lungs burning from the effort that was breathing and his mind   
numbed by the pain and the buzzing sensation of all his nerve endings   
screaming, Oz thought that the only thing he could do was to crouch down   
in a corner.  
  
And, like an agonized animal, wait for the end.  
  
Talon hissed at him menacingly, and Rush let out his hyena-like laugh. And   
then, both of them moved in a flash, their fangs and claws shining white   
in the dim darkness of the room.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
"This is Daddy Goose, here. Do you read me, Receptor Team? Backlash?   
Havoc? Do you hear me, guys?"  
  
After not obtaining any response from his partners on the fifth attempt,   
Chopper mumbled a colorful curse under his breath and switched the   
communications system, passing it to internal mode so he could speak with   
Sniper, in the rear section of the Huey helicopter.  
  
"Hold onto something, Snip, we're going to go down," he informed his   
partner, his voice clear through the microphone in spite of the batting   
sound of the rotors.  
  
"Still no news from the ground?" the red-haired mercenary asked with his   
cold voice, as always devoid of any emotion. Sometimes, Chopper wondered   
if he truly was a man or, instead, some kind of cold-blooded cyborg.  
  
"Nothing, man," the pilot said, lowering the nose of the helicopter and   
diving down. The surface of Sunnydale came closer, the dark buildings   
getting bigger in front of the chopper's windshield. "The positional   
signal is still active, but I'm not getting any verbal response to my   
calls."  
  
"Those inconsiderate bastards..."  
  
Chopper chuckled under his breath, and shook his head. "Have a look down   
there with the infra-red, OK? I'd like to have a first-hand impression   
before calling the Colonel with the bad news."  
  
"Sure thing," Sniper grunted, connecting the infra-red system monitors.   
After a short and skillful manipulation of the controls, the mercenary   
clicked with his tongue and let out a whistle.  
  
Chopper frowned, looking down to the dark and apparently peaceful street   
beneath them. "What happened?"  
  
"Something that you're not going to like, buddy," Sniper said with a   
smile, the eerie green glow of the monitor reflected on his edged,   
weasel-like features. "Not at all..."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Backlash opened his eyes with a groan, his head pounding with what felt   
like the mother of all hangovers. Then, when he managed to stand up to   
what resembled minimally a straight posture and could finally look around   
and place himself, he grunted again.  
  
Wishing that the intense pain in his head, was indeed caused by a long   
night of wrestling with alcohol.  
  
And not because some brunette bitch had knocked the living daylights out   
of him with his own weapon.  
  
Bloody hell, he was going to pay for that, and he knew it. Looking   
outside, noticing that the night had already fallen and that there was no   
trace of his partners or the one-eyed warlock, Backlash let out a curse   
and grabbed the walkie-talkie from the dashboard as he opened the door and   
got out of the black Humvee.  
  
"Daddy Goose?" he barked at the speaker as he circled the vehicle and   
opened the trunk. He patted under his jacket, and noticed that his gun had   
vanished from its holster.  
  
"That bloody bitch..." he growled, grabbing a Mini-Uzi from the weapons   
rack inside the trunk and checking its clip. "Chopper!! Where are you,   
mate?"  
  
"Me?" the pilot's voice came out of the speaker, carrying a good dose of   
anger. "Where the hell have you been, man? And what's happening down   
there? The colonel is going to skin everybody alive if something goes   
wrong!"  
  
Clenching his teeth together, Backlash chambered a round in the compact   
submachine-gun and started crossing the street towards the apartment   
block.  
  
"He'll have to wait his turn," he whispered, "because I get to go first."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
The roar of the gunshot was surprisingly quiet in Cordelia's ears, almost   
non-existent. Her whole attention was centered on the man's face, on the   
look in his dark eyes and the spark that the explosion of the gunpowder   
made shine in them.  
  
So much so that she barely noticed anything else, not the sound, not even   
the wet sensation when some tiny wet drops fell on her face, coming from   
the man.  
  
A pungent cloud of smoke, the metallic sound of the heavy slide going back   
and ejecting the empty case, which flew in the air spinning madly, and   
then those same dark eyes widened in shock and horror.  
  
Santero stood up, releasing the brunette's neck, and shrugged the   
middle-aged British man away, annoyed at his obstruction. Giles just let   
him go, falling at his young friend's side. He panted lightly, and looked   
with dread at the Hispanic mercenary as he staggered backwards, touching   
the chest of his black T-shirt with his fingertips.  
  
The gun wavered in Cordelia's hands, as she was shaken by the rush of   
adrenaline inside her veins, but remained aiming at him at every moment as   
he looked down at his own stained fingers.  
  
A large spot, darker than the black cotton of the man's T-shirt, was   
quickly drenching his chest but, in his fingers that same fluid was a   
furious red.  
  
As the knife slipped out of his fingers and fell to the floor, Santero   
opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water and looked at the   
prone, shaken young woman and her older companion, a strange maniacal   
smile coming to his lips.  
  
"A brunette in a miniskirt," he whispered with amazement, shaking his   
head. "Bloody unbeli..."  
  
His back collided against the near wall and his voice died into a   
meaningless gurgle as his body slowly sank down to the carpeted floor, a   
thick gush of blood flooding out the corner of his mouth.  
  
His head fell down, awkwardly tilted to one side. His eyes lost any trace   
of life, remaining hard and empty like two pieces of smoked glass.  
  
Very slowly, Cordelia turned around so she could look straight at him, the   
Beretta in her hand never stopping to aim at his, she realized, now   
lifeless body. The sensations that ran through her body at that very   
moment were so strong, so intense and, above all, so different, that she   
wasn't able to assimilate them all.  
  
A voice, so far away inside the depths of her mind that she almost didn't   
hear it, told her that she was in state of shock.  
  
She had killed a man. She had committed murder. The word, like a wave of   
nausea, repeated inside her mind ad infinitum. Killer. She was a killer.  
  
"He's not turning into dust," she babbled incoherently, looking at Giles   
for assistance. "Why isn't he turning into dust?"  
  
Swallowing down a thick knot in his throat, Giles stood up and came closer   
to her, reaching out to take the wavering gun from her hands.  
  
"He isn't a vampire," he told her softly, in what he hoped would be a   
comforting tone. "H-he isn't going to turn into ashes, my dear."  
  
"But... but... the blood..." she whispered, unable to take her wide hazel   
eyes away from the mercenary's dead body. "There's so much blood..."  
  
"I know, I know," he whispered comfortingly to her, placing the gun into   
the waist of his trousers and enveloping the young brunette into his arms.   
He gently spun her around so her back was to the corpse, and the young   
woman did nothing to stop or help him doing so.  
  
She was still except for the slight tremble that ran through her body,   
making the older man think of her as a leaf about to fall. "Everything is   
going to be alright, OK? Don't look at him anymore, just don't look at   
him." Giles said.  
  
Fighting the tears that threatened to come to her eyes, Cordelia hid her   
face in Giles' chest and allowed the older man to take her fully into his   
arms, as he traced out soothing paths on her back.  
  
"Oh, what a touching scene," a voice said behind them in that moment.  
  
Looking over Cordelia's shoulder, Giles cursed under his breath when he   
saw Havoc across the room, aiming at them with his huge gun. The mercenary   
was leaning heavily against the wall and holding his side, cringing in   
pain with every breath he took, and the middle-aged Watcher guessed that   
Cordelia must have at least cracked a pair of his ribs.  
  
As he looked at the still form of his partner, Havoc bit his own lip and   
shook his head, closing his eyes for a brief moment to center himself,   
trying to ignore the piercing buzz inside his head and the pain of his   
body, erasing them with rage and hate.  
  
Hell, he was going to rip them into pieces.  
  
"Don't move, don't do anything at all," the Scandinavian man panted,   
taking his hand away from his wounded side to wipe a trace of blood from   
the corner of his mouth and pointing at Giles with his gun. "Now you, kick   
that cross over here."  
  
Giles, still hugging Cordelia with her back towards the mercenary, looked   
down at her and found that she was looking back at him, her hazel eyes   
still misted but now serene and full of determination.  
  
She nodded softly and, slowly and imperceptibly started to move her hand   
from Giles' waist, bringing it in between their bodies.  
  
Slowly reaching out with his foot and never releasing the brunette, the   
Watcher kicked the fallen cross weakly, making it skid over the carpeted   
floor until it stopped half-way to the wounded mercenary's figure.  
  
"Couldn't you have kicked it a little more strongly?" Havoc asked with   
annoyance, as he took a step towards the artifact and leaned down to   
retrieve it.  
  
At that very moment, as the blonde man took his eyes away from them for   
the briefest moment, Giles and Cordelia started to act, their movements   
surprisingly fluid and precise considering their state of distress, both   
physical and emotional.  
  
As the young brunette grabbed the 9mm gun she had taken from Santero and   
drew it out from Giles' waistband, the former librarian took her fully   
into his arms. He lifted her slender frame off the floor and spun around,   
so his own body would be between Cordelia's and the mercenary.  
  
Her hand emerged from under Giles' left arm, carrying the black Beretta   
Brigadier, and as Giles practically dragged on his arms towards the broken   
remains of the door and just when Havoc's hand closed around the larger   
arm of the du Lac Cross, she opened fire.  
  
Without thinking. Without feeling. Without even considering again what she   
was doing.  
  
She pulled the trigger madly, spraying hot lead without really aiming with   
any precision as the Scandinavian mercenary grabbed the fallen cross and   
rolled around on the floor, dodging the shots as best as he could and   
returning fire.  
  
Cordelia's bullets impacted all around her target's moving body, ripping   
large chunks of wood, sharp splinters and dusty clouds of burn fabric from   
the carpet. Havoc, firing as wildly as her, emptied his Desert Eagle   
against their moving figures, more worried about covering himself than   
shooting them down.  
  
Nevertheless, no matter how uncontrolled his shots were, the .50 caliber   
bullets passed dangerously close to Giles and Cordelia, hitting the frame   
of the door around them. Covering their entangled bodies with a falling   
rain of wooden splinters, that scratched their skins.  
  
The middle-aged Watcher moved on impulse and, almost flying, carried his   
young protégé across the hallway and into the momentary safety of the   
adjacent bathroom.  
  
"Oh, bloody hell!!" Giles exclaimed in pain, when they crashed down onto   
the cold porcelain floor and he banged his head on the edge of the toilet.   
"This is going too far!"  
  
Scrambling awkwardly from under his heavy body, Cordelia crawled on her   
hands and knees to the door and, covering herself behind the frame, took a   
quick look outside. Her range of vision was limited and she wasn't able to   
distinguish the mercenary, but she guessed he had to be still in the   
bedroom.  
  
Immediately, she realized that if he tried to come out the room by the   
door she could shoot him down easily, without any real effort.  
  
The problem was, that she wasn't sure if she would make herself do it.  
  
Cordelia took a deep breath, and closed her hazel eyes for the briefest   
second, clenching her teeth together until she started to feel pain in her   
jaws from the effort.  
  
=Life or death,= she told herself. =You or them. There's no other option.=  
  
Was this what Xander thought every time he'd had to take that same   
decision? Had he felt that same cold void in the pit of his stomach that   
she was feeling right now? Had he been as scared as she was?  
  
"Cordelia..." Giles whispered at her back, leaning his hand on her   
shoulder and shaking her.  
  
The young brunette yelped in surprise, caught completely off-guard and   
spun around in a flash, the muzzle of her Beretta barely at two inches   
from Giles' brow.  
  
"Good God, Giles!!" she yelled angrily at the man, as she retreated back   
against the wall and move the pistol away. "Don't ever do that again!!"  
  
Sighing and wiping the blood and sweat from his forehead, Giles shook his   
head. "This has gone too far," he insisted. "We have to get out of here,   
the sooner the better."  
  
"And what do we do about him?" she asked, signaling to the room across the   
hallway with a soft shake of her tousled head. "He has the cross."  
  
The Watcher sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "To the hell with   
it," he growled finally. "We'll think on how to get it back later. First   
things first, and the most important thing now is to get out of here   
alive."  
  
Cordelia shook her head in denial, stubborn as only her could be. "We   
can't let them win."  
  
"This is not a competition, Cordelia," Giles told her sternly. "And even   
if it was, there's no silver medal for second place."  
  
She couldn't help but let a cocky grin cross her lips and, as she rose   
with her back sliding up the door's frame, she shook her head. "That's my   
motto, Giles. Second place winner is first place loser."  
  
Before he could do anything to stop her, the young brunette stepped out of   
the bathroom, the gun firm and sure in her hands as she crossed the   
hallway with two fast steps and leaned back against the wall, right by the   
broken frame of the door.  
  
Cursing under his breath, Giles stood up and followed her, all the way   
wondering why he hadn't followed his childhood fantasy and become a   
fighter pilot. He was sure it would have been a way more relaxing   
existence.  
  
"And now?" he asked softly to her in a low voice.  
  
Leaning her index finger in the trigger, Cordelia dared to take a quick   
look inside. "Oh, shit!" she exclaimed, quickly getting into the room.  
  
"What?" Giles asked again with worry, following her closely. She didn't   
answer him, but it wasn't really necessary as he quickly realized what was   
going on.  
  
The broken bed. The folded and snapped bedsprings. All the contents of his   
safe-box scatted around the room as if it had been hit by a tornado.  
  
The still-bleeding corpse of the Hispanic mercenary, the smell of cordite   
from the gunshots. And the ozone from the magic lingering in the air...   
and nothing more.   
  
No trace of the tall blonde man, vanished into the dim semi-darkness of   
the bedroom like a ghost.  
  
And, above all, no trace of the du Lac Cross.  
  
"Shit," Cordelia growled again in an unladylike way and, before Giles   
could prevent it, she turned around, running down the stairs, taking the   
steps two at a time.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Grunting with the effort, Havoc finished climbing down the drain pipe and   
took a short jump, landing on the fresh earth of the garden beneath the   
balcony with a soft thump.  
  
He took only a second to lean against the wall and breathe deeply, shaking   
his pained head.  
  
Santero was dead, killed by a former cheerleader. =Too damn ironic to be a   
hallucination, and at the same time, too surreal to be true.=  
  
Bringing out his huge pistol, the Scandinavian mercenary turned around and   
started to run away in a fast jog. He felt the short arms of the cross,   
which he held in the waistband of his trousers, digging uncomfortably into   
the flesh of his side.  
  
He rounded the whole building and came to the front side of the apartment   
complex, all the way looking around himself with nervous eyes, checking   
that no one saw or followed him.  
  
Havoc wondered what he was going to tell the Colonel, and what his   
superior's reaction would be. He wasn't sure, but he knew it wouldn't be a   
good one.  
  
Colonel Ashe had never been famous for his mercy, his understanding or his   
ability to let slide the mistakes of the people under his command.  
  
The idea of running away as fast as he could crossed his mind, but he knew   
that action would be as smart as putting the muzzle of a loaded gun   
against his own temple and pulling the trigger.  
  
Finally locating the bulk of the black Humvee across the street, Havoc   
quickly walked to it and opened the passenger's door. "Backlash! Where the   
hell are you..."  
  
His voiced died on his lips and he closed his eyes tightly, grimacing and   
releasing a loud curse. "Damn it!" he shouted with rage, as he punched the   
edge of the vehicle's door with his massive fist.  
  
The interior of the military truck was completely empty, with no trace of   
his Australian partner. Havoc turned around and looked back at the   
entrance of the building.  
  
Shaking his head, the mercenary took the stolen cross from his waistband   
and threw it onto the back seat, covering it with blanket before starting   
to run to the apartment complex as fast as his tired legs allowed him.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
When they were at less than a meter from his crouched-down figure, both   
Panteras reached out with his arm for his brother's extended one.  
  
Grabbing each other by the wrist, the two semi-turned feline men formed a   
makeshift bar of flesh, that made Oz think of the way people used to dance   
the limbo.  
  
=The difference,= the young werewolf realized when they finally reached   
him and the make-shift bar of flesh and bone hit him in the throat, =is   
that this one seems ten times harder than pure steel.=  
  
As he flew backwards and landed painfully on the broken remains of Giles'   
coffee table, sliding then onto the floor until he crashed against one of   
the overturned sofas, all that he was able to think was that he was losing   
the fight.  
  
He was doing it pretty badly too, and Giles was going to spend a small   
fortune just to replace his broken furniture.  
  
Then, Rush jumped onto him, painfully choking the air out of his lungs. As   
he pinned his body down with his clawed hands and feet, the black, furry   
man looked down at him, a smug snarl on his thin feline lips as he tilted   
his head to one side and released his hyena-like laughter.  
  
"Doggie's down!" he exclaimed amusedly. "Doggie can't play anymore!" Then,   
he turned his head around and looked at his brother over his shoulder.   
"Talon, the doggie wounded is. With him what do I do?"  
  
Standing up to his full height, Talon flashed a fanged grin that was   
curiously devoid of any real amusement. "What you do with wounded animals,   
Rush. Don't let him suffer."  
  
Rush let his head fall back and released a new, unnerving guffaw that   
sounded almost as if he was running out of breath. "Do you hear that,   
doggie? We don't let you-"  
  
He never finished the sentence as Oz, who had been getting angrier and   
angrier with each passing second, to the point that his own blood was   
boiling inside his veins, released a thundering roar.  
  
One that made the walls tremble as his clawed right hand emerged with the   
speed and the strength of a heaven-sent lightning bolt, slashing the   
feline man across his face.  
  
Well, 'slashing' was actually an euphemism as Oz's elongated claws dug   
into the tender flesh at the end of his jaws and then ripped off   
practically all of the left side of the man's face, exposing his inner   
tissues and muscles.  
  
Blood spurted everywhere, and Rush went spinning in the air as he wailed   
in pain.  
  
"Rush!" Talon's scream thundered, as he saw his brother crashing down to   
the floor like a ton of bricks.  
  
"Talon! Talon!" the tall man cried childishly, awkwardly holding the   
horrible wound on his face, blood gushing out from it and flowing between   
his fingers, drenching his velvet fur and strange clothes. "Hurts! Hurts   
very much!"  
  
The werewolf stood up slowly, a growl escaping his thin lupine snout as he   
scratched the wooden floor with his rear talons as he place himself with   
his back towards the nearest window. Oz howled a blood-chilling cry and   
settled his flaming yellow eyes on the two brothers, getting their   
attention.  
  
"Bastard!" Talon roared, charging against him in rage. "You are dead!!"  
  
Oz didn't move an inch to elude the upcoming beast, he stood his ground   
firmly with his powerful legs slightly flexed and steeled himself. Getting   
ready, as Talon took off and crossed the remaining distance with a mighty   
jump, his arms extended like wings, ready to strike with his sharp claws.  
  
Then, as the black man fell down on him, slashing madly and roaring, Oz   
grabbed him with a bear hug and spun around, carrying him as he pushed   
against the floor with his feet.  
  
Adding his own energy to the feline man's momentum, the werewolf abandoned   
the floor and flew to the window at his back, crashing against it with all   
the force of their entangled bodies.  
  
They fell outside in the middle of a rain of broken glasses and wooden   
splinters, breaking away from each other as they rolled on the muddy grass   
and tried to stand up. Still crouched down predatorily, they locked gazes,   
wolfish yellow boring into feline green and vice versa.  
  
Then, roaring at the same time, they launched themselves against each   
other once again.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
As the two raging supernatural beasts crashed through the window, the main   
door of the apartment burst open from a powerful kick. Backlash came into   
the living room, wielding his compact Mini-Uzi and moving it from one side   
to the other, aiming at nothing and everything at the same time.  
  
"C'mon, bloody freakos!" he shouted, his nostrils flaring and the veins in   
his neck swelled in rage. "C'mere and lemme kick yer bloody arses!!"  
  
The whole effect of his furious entrance was spoiled by the fact, that all   
his 's' sounds came out in a whistle through the holes left in his mouth   
by the broken teeth.  
  
He saw Rush's figure leaned against the wall, holding half of his face,   
and immediately recognized him from the briefing session at the mansion.  
  
"Hey, what's up, man?" the mercenary called his attention. "Are you   
alright?"  
  
Turning around, the feline man hissed at him as he uncovered his face,   
showing him the horrible wound, his long fangs standing up against the   
swollen and torn tissue and velvet fur of his face, now cranky and spiked   
out with the blood.  
  
"Oh!! Holymotherfuckingjesus!!" Backlash yelled, recoiling in shock and   
fear as he aimed at the beast-man with his weapon, which was trembling in   
his hand.   
  
But, before he even had the chance to think about pulling the trigger, a   
noise made him instinctively turn around.  
  
He had to blink twice as an apparition from the very depths of Hell, much   
more scary than the wounded beast-man, made her entrance into the room,   
taking the steps two at a time as she climbed down the stairs from the   
second floor.  
  
Tousled, wild raven-dark hair, scratched and bruised face, wearing a torn   
black miniskirt and an equally battered white blouse, barefoot and with   
blazing, angry hazel eyes, Cordelia Chase was so beautiful that the   
Australian mercenary was rendered breathless for a second.  
  
Just until he saw how she was raising the semi-automatic in her hand to   
aim at him.  
  
"Aaaaaahhhh!!!" Backlash shouted in rage, lifting his own weapon and   
pulling the trigger as he ran back to the entrance.  
  
A burst of fire and burning lead erupted from the Mini-Uzi. The   
uncontrolled impacts of the bullets rained all around Cordelia, tearing   
the staircase apart and enveloping the young brunette into a cloud of   
wooden splinters as she jumped smoothly over the banister.  
  
Returning fire without really taking aim at all, she landed heavily in   
Giles' office, right onto his cluttered desk.  
  
"Damn!" she cursed, rolling over all the Watcher's paperwork and falling   
behind the protection offered by the huge desk. "Is everybody invited to   
this party or what!?!"  
  
Without daring to show her head, Cordelia raised her hand and fired her   
gun wildly, her gunshots ripping chunks of wood and plaster from the   
doorframe Backlash was using for cover.  
  
"I'm going to kill you, bitch!" The Australian man shouted practically on   
the edge of hysteria as he fired short, uncontrolled burst of bullets   
against Cordelia's cover. "I'm going to kill you all!! I'm going to-"  
  
A hand fell on his shoulder and he released a girly scream, turning around   
with wide open, panicked eyes as he waved nervously with his automatic   
weapon.  
  
Havoc grabbed his gun-wrist and pushed it away before his partner could   
accidentally blow his brains out.  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked with annoyance.  
  
"Havoc! Mate!" Backlash laughed nervously, looking at the tall   
Scandinavian man as if he was a godsend. "You're here! Where were you?"  
  
"Out there," he growled as he fired a couple of shots against the desk to   
cover themselves, "wondering where you'd gotten your sorry Aussie ass to."  
  
"Wha-what are you doing?" Backlash asked, when his partner grabbed him by   
the shoulder and started to drag him to the door.  
  
Havoc waited for a couple of seconds to answer him, not speaking until   
they were out of the building and walking toward the parked Humvee. "We're   
getting outta here, we've finished with this madness."  
  
The Australian man frowned deeply, looking around in confusion. "And the   
rest? Santero? The others?"  
  
"Santero's dead," Havoc said sternly. "And the others can go screw   
themselves in Hell, for all I care."  
  
He opened the door and motioned for his partner to get into the car, but   
the shorter mercenary remained motionless, looking at him with shocked   
expression.  
  
"What?!?" Havoc demanded. "Santero? Dead?"  
  
"Yes! Dead! As in without life! As in with a goddamn bullet through the   
middle of his chest, OK!?!" Havoc grabbed him by the shoulder again and   
shook his partner, trying to get him out of his trance of incredulity.   
"Can you just snap out of it and get into the bloody car? We gotta go!"  
  
Violently shrugging his hand away, Backlash stabbed him with furious eyes   
and an angry expression. They looked at each other and, for a second, it   
seemed that they were going to jump at each other's throats.  
  
Then, finally, the Australian mercenary shook his head and got into the   
car, sitting down behind the steering wheel as his partner imitated him in   
silence, getting into the back seat.  
  
Havoc took the blanket away and grabbed the golden cross, showing it to   
his partner as he started the engine. "We have what we were looking for,   
OK? Mission accomplished, now get us outta here, mate."  
  
"They're going to pay for this," Backlash growled under his breath,   
shaking his head in stubborn denial as he drove the huge vehicle into the   
road. "We'll make them pay for Santero."  
  
"Sure thing," Havoc whispered, nervously looking at the building's   
entrance through the window, only relaxing when he didn't see anybody   
coming out to chase them. "But now just drive us back to the base, OK? You   
just take us home."  
  
Clenching his teeth together, Backlash drove away from the building,   
gaining more and more speed until he saw something through the windshield,   
the flash of some upcoming vehicles' headlights turning the corner at the   
end of the street and getting closer to them.  
  
"What's that?" he asked his partner.  
  
Looking over his shoulder, Havoc cursed under his breath. "The   
reinforcements."  
  
"A little late, don't you think?" the Australian man asked, with a spark   
of amusement on his voice. "We already have the bloody cross."  
  
"Not our reinforcements, bonehead," his partner hissed at him, "their   
reinforcements."  
  
Backlash's eyes opened wide in realization and he released the same curse   
of his partner. "Oh, shit. What do I do?"  
  
As Havoc leaned back on his seat and grabbed a huge sports-bag from the   
floor, zipping it open, he sent a hard stare to the back of his partner's   
neck. "Just go through them," he growled, bringing out a massive   
multi-round grenade launcher from the back.  
  
Backlash looked at his partner through the rearview mirror, and couldn't   
help but smile smugly as the Scandinavian man loaded the weapon and rolled   
down the window, leaning out of it.  
  
"Time to spread some havoc," he whispered, grinning edgily and slamming   
his foot down on the gas pedal.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
  
To be continued... 


	8. Part 8 of 10

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book III, part 8 of 10  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general   
corrections by Theo  
  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow   
kissing and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial,   
Land of 'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline   
to accommodate it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy'   
happened a lot later than it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are   
only tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of   
Highlander-style immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole   
'Immortals have no parents and are found in a little basket' is a... um,   
the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada', so let's just ignore it, OK?  
  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit,   
merely for the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander,   
Willow, Oz, Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle   
Gorch, Quentin Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property   
of Joss Whedon, Warner Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of   
Highlander and the characters mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda   
Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the Society of Watchers) are the   
property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the   
World Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are   
copyright of their respective rights owners.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language,   
so any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my   
wonderful beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please   
be kind with me. I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child,   
believe me.  
  
SUMMARY: Broderick Egoyan has carefully chosen the right moment to strike,   
when friends are against friends and all trust seems about to vanish   
between Slayerettes and Archangels. It's right when you think things   
couldn't get worse that they get worse.  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen,   
because it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book III  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as The Sergeant  
Benjamin Bratt as Santero  
Trevor Goddar as Backlash  
Dolph Lundgren as Havoc  
Rob Rowland as Chopper  
Jake Busey as Sniper  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Matthew Ferguson as Chip  
  
Bill Paxton as Major Stephen Marsden, USAF  
Tom Sizemore as Master Sergeant Ricky Perkins, USAF  
John Leguizamo as Airman First Class Charlie Martinelli, USAF  
Mario Lopez as Airman First Class Alonso 'Bear' Vasquez, USAF  
Patrick Labyorteaux as Sergeant Edwin Walters, USAF  
  
Richard Dean Anderson as Col. Jack O'Neill, USAF  
Michael Shanks as Dr. Daniel Jackson  
Amanda Tapping as Maj. Samantha Carter, USAF  
Christopher Judge as Teal'c  
Don S. Davis as Gen. George Hammond, USAF  
Teryl Rothery as Dr. Janet Fraiser  
Tom McBeath as Col. Harry Mayborne, USAF  
Peter Deluise as Airman Shepard, USAF  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
and  
  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
"You have an obstacle ahead, Xan," Kyle's voice came through the speaker   
in his ear, needlessly warning him. "And it doesn't look like he's going   
to slow down any time soon."   
  
In spite of his dark sunglasses, Xander's sensitive vampire eyes were   
suddenly blinded when the Humvee's powerful anti-fog headlamps were   
switched on, and he had to take his eyes away for a brief second, blinking   
repeatedly to extinguish the stars shining behind his eyelids.  
  
This meant that he couldn't notice the man appearing through the   
rolled-down window, until it was almost too late.  
  
"Xander!!" Kyle roared through the radio, making him rise his eyes from   
the blurred asphalt.  
  
Havoc's South African grenade launcher had a compact MAC-11 submachine-gun   
attached under the barrel, replacing the front handle. And as he aimed   
directly at the young vampire on his bike, the Scandinavian mercenary   
opened up with automatic fire, sending a wave of bullets in his direction.  
  
As he shifted unconsciously into his game face, his handsome features   
filling with ridges and planes and feeling his sharp fangs under his upper   
lip, Xander cursed under his breath. He yanked at the bike's handlebars   
with all his unnatural strength, raising the front wheel of the Yamaha and   
using the massive block of the engine as a cover.  
  
Speeding at more than 80 mph on its rear wheel, the muscled bike received   
the impacts of the bullets: which ripped golden sparks from the metal,   
before Xander let the front wheel fall back to the ground when the   
mercenary stopped firing against him.   
  
The young vampire cursed again, finding himself practically over the hood   
of the upcoming Humvee, with very little time and space to react.  
  
In the space of a heartbeat, Xander took one look at the scene, the   
Humvee's massive body speeding towards him, boring down the middle of the   
road, the rows of cars parked at both sides of the street and the almost   
too-narrow space between them and the military vehicle.  
  
And the grenade-launcher, again directly aimed against his person. His   
sharp eyes captured all this and, in the space of a nanosecond, he made a   
decision.  
  
"I'm going to the right!" he shouted into the microphones around his   
throat as he turned into said direction. And he did it so violently, that   
the bike groaned at the very limits of its tires' performance.  
  
"Hear ya!" Kyle exclaimed, veering to the left at the very moment in which   
Havoc pulled the trigger of the grenade launcher, and a 37mm explosive   
projectile came straight at them.  
  
The grenade passed through the empty space left by the two moving vehicles   
and impacted against a parked Chrysler, making it blow up into a ball of   
fire and flying shrapnel as its metallic frame flew off the ground,   
twisting and screaming in metallic torture.  
"Wow!" the Texan exclaimed looking at the explosion through the rearview   
mirror, as the interior of his car filled with the crackling yellows and   
reds of the fire. "What a blast!"  
  
The black Humvee followed the trail of the grenade as Xander passed by its   
right like an exhalation and Kyle did the same by the opposed side,   
although the tall Texan barely had enough space to introduce his   
cherry-red Pathfinder between the military vehicle and the row of parked   
cars.  
  
Leaning his head to one side, the young vampire dodged the exterior mirror   
of the vehicle by a too-short inch. When he finally passed the car,   
fighting to control the bike in the middle of the turbulence caused by the   
massive Humvee, Xander twisted the handlebars violently.  
  
He side-swiped the Yamaha and skidded laterally on its smoking tires for   
several meters, until he finally stopped and made it turn around.  
  
Kyle, on the contrary, didn't have as much luck. The space for his vehicle   
was so short that the passenger's side mirror crashed against the Humvee's   
one, the two of them shattering into flying pieces as the two sides of   
both vehicles scratched against each other, eliciting sparks with the   
contact.  
  
Then, when he was about to leave the Humvee behind, its driver twisted the   
steering wheel violently, making its rear side crash against Kyle's own   
vehicle.  
  
Since the military vehicle was way heavier than his luxury SUV, the   
cherry-red Pathfinder was sent against the row of parked cars. It spun   
around madly, as its driver unsuccessfully tried to control it.  
  
"Son of a..." Kyle growled under his breath, seeing how the line of cars   
was now dangerously close. "Cris, hold onto some-"  
  
His voice died in his lips as the red-haired witch made a complex sign   
with her hands, muttering something intelligible through her perfect,   
crimson lips.  
  
The Pathfinder collided against the row of parked cars and the force of   
the impact raised the off-road vehicle's body off the ground, as it spun   
madly in the middle of the noise of shattering glass and breaking metal.  
  
When Kyle's head banged against the steering wheel painfully, the Texan   
released a yelp of pain but his exclamation quickly faded away as the   
interior of the vehicle filled suddenly with a strange white foam that   
blinded his eyes and got into his mouth, silencing him.  
  
The strange foam, surprisingly warm, thickened and turned solid in a   
heartbeat, rendering the Texan and the witch motionless, preventing them   
from making any movement at the same time that it protected their bodies   
from the blows and the impacts of the accident.  
  
As the car crashed upside-down, flattening several innocent cars in the   
process and finally remaining still, Kyle started to move. He pushed at   
the solid foam around him until he managed to rip off a large chunk of it   
and move his head out the shattered window, taking greedy breaths of fresh   
air and spitting the remains of the tasteless foam from his mouth.  
  
Awkwardly crawling out of the synthetic hug of the foam, he got out on his   
knees and reached into the hole with his right arm, until his hand closed   
around Crystal's wrist and he started to yank at it, bringing the witch   
out of the crashed vehicle.  
  
"What the hell was that?" he asked her, as he helped her to her feet and   
checked that she wasn't wounded. "Some kind of magical meringue?"  
  
"Something like that," she coughed, nodding and giving him a shy smile. "A   
protection spell. I hadn't tried it since I was an apprentice, I wasn't   
sure it would work."  
  
Giving her a twisted, non-amused smile, Kyle knelt down by the Pathfinder   
and dug into the solid foam until he managed to uncover the weapon's rack   
attached to the ceiling and got his combat shotgun from it.  
  
"Kyle? Cris?" Xander's worried voice came from their headphones. "I can't   
see you, are you alright?"  
  
Looking over the upside-down vehicle, the Texan located the young vampire   
practically at the end of the street and gave him a thumbs-up sign. "Yeah,   
a little shaken but we're alright otherwise. Hey, those jerks are getting   
away, are you gonna let that happen?"  
  
Across the street, Xander arched his vampire brow. "I was about to..." Out   
of the corner of his eye, he noticed some movement and he turned his head   
as the main, and tattered, door of Giles' duplex apartment opened.  
  
A disheveled Cordelia came out of the building, running towards him at a   
fast pace, looking like something that the cat had just spat out and   
wielding a nasty black steel Beretta 92FS Brigadier.  
  
"Wait a moment," he whispered, allowing his human mask to return and   
taking off his sunglasses.  
  
Cordelia walked to him and Xander arched his brow expectantly, as his   
lover climbed onto the bike's seat behind him.  
  
"What?" she asked with annoyance, noticing his inquiring stare. "You can't   
expect me to be like dressed to the nines 24/7, can you?"  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Barely a couple of minutes before, as the two mercenaries retreated away   
from the apartment, covering themselves behind a wall of gunshots,   
Cordelia was kneeling down beside the desk.  
  
Biting her lower lip not to scream in frustration and rage, while her   
cover was torn apart by the bullets fired against her.  
  
Sighing, trying to calm down and slow her fast-racing pulse, Cordelia   
leaned back against the desk and her thumb ejected her borrowed pistol's   
clip, allowing her to check how many bullets she had left.  
  
Five in the magazine plus one more in the chamber made a total of six,   
which wasn't exactly something to write home about. Returning the clip to   
the butt of the gun, she clenched her teeth and shook her head.  
  
Things weren't turning out well but, at least, she noticed the gunshots   
against her seemed to have stopped.  
  
Steeling herself, the young brunette dared to raise her head and took a   
look over the edge of the desk, her wide eyes scanning the semi-darkness   
of the office and adjacent living-room, the shapeless forms of the broken   
furniture and the hallway leading to the main entrance.  
  
She found no trace of the mercenaries and guessed that, at last, they had   
chosen the better part of valor and decided to retreat now that they had   
obtained what they were looking for.  
  
She was starting to get up from the floor when suddenly something leaped   
out of the shadows of the living-room, and a massive figure landed on top   
of the desk, making her recoil in surprise and fall back to the floor in   
her already pained behind.  
  
The humanoid form crouched down over the desk predatorily, and hissed at   
her, spraying saliva and blood everywhere from his open, fanged jaws. His   
feline features, accentuated by the horrible wound that had scarred the   
left side of his face, were certainly scary.  
  
But Cordelia had been a full-time Slayerette for years now, and had seen   
things that made Rush Pantera look like nothing more than a side-show   
freak in a Southern fair.  
  
No, the time for terrified and hysterical screaming had passed long ago   
for her and this time, as often before, she didn't allow panic to   
overwhelm her. And, although she was as scared as she probably ever could   
be, she kept her blood cold and her mind clear.   
  
"Hiss your mother, you freak!" she shouted at him angrily.  
  
Letting herself completely fall to the floor, Cordelia pushed with her   
bare feet against the desk, sliding on her back away from the feline man   
as she raised her gun and fired repeatedly against him, emptying the clip   
on his figure.  
  
Rush shook like a leaf in the middle of a hurricane as the lead bullets   
hit him squarely in the chest, piercing his heart and lungs and sending   
him flying backwards from the surface of the desk.  
  
Getting to her feet, Cordelia rounded the torn piece of furniture, aiming   
at the man's fallen figure with her empty gun. On the floor, moaning and   
whining, Rush was still twisting as he profusely bled from his wounds.  
  
The young brunette aimed at his head and pulled the trigger, but the   
Beretta clicked empty and she released a colorful curse as she looked at   
the open slide and the dark void of the empty chamber.  
  
"Cordelia!" Giles' voice came then from the top of the tattered staircase.   
She turned towards him and the British Watcher started to climb down the   
stair cautiously, trying not to stumble upon any of the steps torn apart   
by the bullets.  
  
"I-I thought you would need this," he told her with an uneasy smile,   
throwing a small bulk to her that the brunette caught in mid-air. A full   
9mm clip. "I got it from... the man upstairs."  
  
"Thanks," she said simply, avoiding his intense green eyes as she ejected   
the empty clip and replaced it with the fresh one. Pulling at the weapon,   
she released the gun's slide, which chambered a new round into the   
chamber.  
  
Before she could go away, Giles grabbed her by the dirty fabric of her   
blouse. She stopped and turned around, looking at him silent and   
expectantly.  
  
Giles arched his brow, and sighed tiredly. "You're not going to step back   
away from this, no matter what I tell you, are you?"  
  
Cordelia managed a sad smile, before shaking her head. "I've gone too far   
for that, Giles. And you can't protect me, not anymore." She pointed at   
the squirming man on the floor with her chin. "Would you...?"  
  
Nodding, Giles closed his eyes. "Y-yes, I will take care of him, Cordelia.   
You just... be careful, OK?"  
  
She smiled again, this time for real, and quickly pecked him on the cheek   
before turning around and starting to run toward the exit, once more on   
the proverbial chase.  
  
Pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly, Giles sighed again and looked   
down at the man at his feet. "What am I going to do with you, my friend?"   
he asked with resignation.  
  
The only sound coming from the wounded feline man, was a cry of pain.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
"One of these days we're going to have a long talk about your wardrobe,   
Cris," Kyle told her with a smile. He observed how the red-haired witch   
had to roll up the lower part of her white robe, so she could keep up with   
her friend's fast pace and not stumble upon it.  
  
In the process she had bared her long and smooth legs, much to the Texan's   
viewing pleasure. "Do I hear any complaints?" she asked with a half-smile.  
  
He chuckled, and shook his head. "Speaking as a hot-blooded male, not at   
all. But you have to admit that those clothes are hardly what you can   
call... tactically adequate."  
  
"Oh, and that coming from a man who wears Duffy Duck underwear."  
  
Kyle's jaw hung loose, as he looked at her in ashamed astonishment. "How   
did you know...?"  
  
Bringing a slender finger to her smiling lips, Crystal shushed him. "Shh,   
do you hear that?"  
  
"What? I just-"  
  
She silenced him by covering his mouth with her hand and the tall Texan   
rolled his blue eyes before he, at the witch's determined stare, sighed   
and tilted his head to one side and the other. Kyle finally heard   
something; something that, for the lack of a better word, was completely   
animalistic.  
  
Grunts. Growls. Hisses...   
  
As he nodded to his companion without uttering a word, the two of them   
resumed their jog towards the building and, just as they were about to   
round the corner, Kyle stopped dead in his tracks, raising his arm to   
indicate Crystal that she do the same.  
  
"I feel a strong source of power nearby," the red-haired witch whispered   
at him as the Texan carefully leaned on the corner and took a cautious   
look. "We should... Kyle, are you even listening to me?"  
  
The truth was, he wasn't. He couldn't, as all of his attention was   
centered on the two supernatural beasts fighting some yards away from   
them, their huge hairy bodies moving between the trees of the garden, dark   
shadows that flowed like quicksilver in the still air of the night.  
  
The large red-haired werewolf, with his claws and fangs shining under the   
pale moonlight, his hairy body crisscrossed by one-too-many cuts, his   
reddish locks drenched with his own blood, was a perfect machine of   
destruction.  
  
Kyle saw him grabbing a thin tree and ripping it from its roots with only   
one hand, using it afterwards to keep its adversary at bay, swinging it as   
if it was a baseball bat.  
  
It was a scary image, but it wasn't what made Kyle's blood freeze inside   
his veins. It wasn't what made something inside his stomach ache so much,   
that he thought he was going to vomit. It wasn't what made his soul bleed.  
  
Frozen on the spot, he couldn't help but remember a time long ago, a voice   
and a piece of advice that a man he had considered more family than friend   
had once given him. And, now, the truth in his words was so evident that   
it hurt.  
  
=Revenge is a weapon that always backfires on you.=  
  
As his darkened blue eyes followed the movements of the black-furred man   
and he fought the sting of tears, Kyle White Owl released a painful sigh   
and took the safety off of his combat shotgun, pumping a fresh cartridge   
into the chamber.  
  
"Cris," he whispered to the witch at his side with a voice that was barely   
recognizable as his own. "Go by the back, check the interior. I'll take   
care of this."  
  
Looking at him through half-closed eyes, Crystal shook her head, not   
liking at all the tone on her friend's voice, the sudden paleness of his   
expression and, above all, the way in which his green-brown aura was   
shape-shifting, darkening and shining with the unmistakable traces of an   
overwhelming rage.  
  
"I don't think that's-"  
  
"Just do it!" Kyle shouted at her harshly, looking at her shorter frame   
over his shoulder. The rage in his blazing blue eyes was so intense, that   
it made the witch recoil in shock.  
  
The Texan sighed again and, closing his eyes, shook his head. "I'm sorry,   
but I'll take care of this, OK? You just go into the house and check that   
everybody's alright."  
  
"As you say," she whispered, her expression guarded and a little cold.  
  
Kyle wished he had the time, or the ability, to explain her what was going   
through his head, but he knew he was painfully short of both things. He   
just had to take care of everything as it was not only his responsibility,   
but his fate as well.  
  
"Be careful," he whispered at her as she turned around and started to walk   
away. Crystal stopped, and looked at him over her white-clad shoulder. The   
red-haired witch managed to produce a weak smile for him and nodded,   
before resuming her walk and disappearing around the corner.  
  
Turning to the two fighting beasts, Kyle gulped down a thick knot that had   
formed inside his throat and started to walk towards them, his eyes fixed   
on the feline man, following each one of his movements.  
  
=Bury the dead,= he thought, as his grandfather used to say. =Bury the   
dead and dwell with the living, but never close your ears to the words of   
those who have preceded you.=  
  
"Damn it, Grandpa," he whispered to himself, smiling at the dear memory of   
Jake White Owl, "I wish you were here, and I wish you'd told me what to do   
with those that don't want to stay buried."  
  
Kyle was at less than ten yards from the werewolf and his adversary, when   
he raised his Benelli M3 SWAT and fired a single shot to the dark sky   
above. The gunshot thundered in the quiet air, killing the soft grunts and   
growls of the two supernatural beasts and making them turn around to look   
at him with similar blazing eyes.  
  
In the darkness of the night, their eyes flamed like fireflies, stabbing   
his human figure with their intense stares. But, if the tall Texan felt   
intimidated in any way about them, nothing in his stance or in his   
expression betrayed his cold composure.  
  
Lowering his shotgun, Kyle pumped the weapon again, ejecting a red shell   
and loading a new one into the chamber.  
  
"Oz," he acknowledged the red-haired werewolf, nodding softly in his   
direction, "nice new look, pretty claws."  
  
As his only response, the werewolf threw the ripped tree away and released   
a low growl. Then, he retreated a couple of steps, crouching down and   
looking alternately at his enemy and the recent arrived human, knowing,   
feeling that he had to wait for new developments.  
  
Slowly, he started to lick his wounds where the feline man's claws had cut   
his flesh.  
  
Kyle moved his eyes from Oz, to settle them on the feline as the man   
looked back at him, breathing heavily because of the effort of the fight   
but smiling widely, showing his rows of pointed teeth.  
  
"Talon," Kyle whispered, nodding at him. "It's been a long time."  
  
"Too long, favorite son of the tribe," the black man growled as he took   
off the torn remains of his leather jacket and carelessly threw them away.   
His broad chest and thick arms were as slashed and covered in blood as the   
werewolf's, but it seemed like that didn't bother the feline-man at all.  
  
In fact, all that seemed to exist in the world right then was the tall man   
wielding a shotgun in front of him. "Tooo long. But all roads make a   
circle. Here we are, as always, right at the beginning, right at the end."  
  
He crouched down and smiled, baring his fangs. "As always, Kyle White Owl,   
son of Edward, grandson of Jacob."  
  
Nodding, Kyle took a short look around. "Where's your brother, Talon?   
Hanging from some hunter's wall, I hope."  
  
Talon laughed, which was more a hiss than a human sound. "Near he is. But   
about him don't you worry, favorite son. Worry about me."  
  
Arching his brow, Kyle gave him a cocky smile. "Who said I'm worried?"  
  
With a powerful roar as only warning, Talon leaped to him, his arms   
extended and ready to rip the human's tender flesh with his sharp claws.   
But his jump was cut painfully short as Kyle pulled the trigger of his   
shotgun, and a cloud of fire, smoke and buckshot erupted from the muzzle   
of the 12-gauge.  
  
It hit the feline-man in mid-air, and dragged him backwards with the force   
of the impact for several meters, rolling on the muddy grass.  
  
Bringing the shotgun's butt against his shoulder as he reloaded it, the   
smile on his lips was replaced by a grim and determined expression. Kyle   
aimed at Talon, and waited till the black man started to awkwardly get to   
his knees before firing again.  
  
He ripped a large chunk of flesh from his left shoulder with the impact,   
and sent him spinning in the air into a mad twister.  
  
As he walked towards him, his mind filled with voices he had thought   
extinguished a long time ago and his eyes covered by a red veil of rage   
and hate, Kyle kept on firing his shotgun again and again.  
  
He made the man backpedal as his body was practically torn to pieces by   
the lead buckshot, and his blood sprayed the quiet, cold air of the night.  
  
Four times. Five times. Six times... the tall Texan lost count of how many   
times he shot Talon. In the end, it wasn't really him who was the one that   
gathered the strength and peace of mind to stop doing it, but the   
sensation of a strange hand grabbing him by the elbow and making him turn   
around.  
  
Releasing a curse, Kyle had to make an effort not to slam the butt of his   
Benelli into the face of whomever was stopping him to do what every   
living, burning cell of his body was screaming at him to do.  
  
He found himself face to face with Oz's collected features, which were   
surprisingly calm even when they were still wolfish and a set of yellow   
eyes were blazing in the middle of them.  
  
He had three bleeding lines crossing his face from his left temple, over   
the bridge of his nose to the very point of his chin. Kyle thought that,   
and the rest of his wounds covering his body, had to hurt like hell. He   
was going to have a good set of scars, too.  
  
"Let it be," the young werewolf whispered softly to him. "He's dead."  
  
Kyle shrugged the werewolf's hand away, turning back to face the   
feline-man again. He was still on the floor, quiet, without any sign of   
life in his motionless body. Half of his face had disappeared and his   
chest was opened up by the gunshots, allowing him to see his exposed   
ribcage and inner organs.  
  
"Some things refuse to stay dead, Oz," he whispered, his eyes magnetically   
fixed on Talon. "Some things can't ever be killed."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
After leaving Kyle, Crystal rounded the building and walked to the main   
entrance of the apartment complex with her senses, both physical and   
spiritual, scanning each squared inch around her.  
  
Although she was worried about her friend's state of mind, and the way he   
had reacted at the vision of the two beasts, she knew that Kyle would be   
able to take care of himself. And, the truth was she preferred it that he   
would stay away from the building as much as possible.  
  
In the end, he would be safer.  
  
Because she hadn't lied to him, but she hadn't told him the complete   
truth, either. Yes, she had felt a great source of power nearby – so   
strong that she was been about to faint, so thick and poisonous that her   
whole body had been rocked by a painful wave of nausea.  
  
What she hadn't told him was that she had recognized it the very moment   
they had neared the building, the imprint of that power so clear to her   
that it had chilled the red-haired witch to the bone.  
  
Without her knowledge, the same words that were crossing her friend's mind   
in that very moment were the ones that took form in her own. =Some things   
refuse to stay dead.=  
  
Reaching the main entrance, Crystal took a deep breath and pushed the door   
open, which trembled on its punished hinges and was about to fall to the   
ground.  
  
Her jade-green eyes scanned the dark interior of the apartment for a brief   
moment and then she took a step forward, steeling herself and fighting not   
to shake with the fear that was engulfing her whole being.  
  
"I'm here, Conrad," she whispered so quietly that only she was able to   
hear her own voice, "I'm here, my dear."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Leaving the stranger feline-man's body alone for a second, Giles retreated   
back to his office in search for something he could use as a weapon   
against him, not very sure of what that weapon could be.  
  
Of course he had heard and read about beings such as the one that was   
squirming in agony on the floor of his ravished living room, but all the   
textbooks that had mentioned them assured him that they had died out   
centuries ago.  
  
Like the rest of shape-shifting species, that had once populated the   
confines of the Earth.  
  
Supposedly all that remained of them were the werewolves, which apparently   
had been the only ones wise and strong enough to survive as the hand of   
the progress and the modern age had destroyed the wilderness where they'd   
had to seek refuge.  
  
Now, as he took a short look at the feline-man, Giles thought that, as   
with many other things in the last few years, that it was something that   
had to be questioned and rediscussed.  
  
Giles suspected he would be vulnerable to the same things as his lupine   
relative. At least he hoped so, as he retrieved from the umbrella stand an   
old and heavy cane that had belonged to his parents and which had its   
pommel and point made of hard and shiny silver.  
  
Walking back to the man's body, Giles took a deep breath and towered over   
him, lifting the cane with his two hands, ready to sink its pointed end on   
the feline's chest.  
  
On the floor at his feet, Rush emitted a soft, pained moan and exhaled a   
long breath, becoming completely motionless as, closing his eyes, his head   
fell to one side. Immediately, all traces of his feline form vanished from   
his body, the thick black fur retreating to nothing as his features melted   
back to human.  
  
All that remained was an incredibly tall Afro-American man covered with   
the torn remains of a spaceman-like jumpsuit, drenched in blood and with   
his hair colored in ten different shades of pink, yellow, blue and green.  
  
"Well," Giles whispered amazed as he slowly lowered the cane, "I'll be   
damned..."  
  
And, of course, that was when Rush opened his eyes and hissed at him,   
spraying saliva from his open jaws as he trapped Giles' ankles between his   
legs and scissored them, throwing him to the floor.  
  
Cursing his own stupidity under his breath, Giles rushed to his knees at   
the same time as the black man, his features once more changing to his   
supernatural self. The Watcher swung his cane over his shoulder, hitting   
him on the side of his head and throwing him to one side.  
  
As fast as he could, Giles stood up and threw himself over the stranger   
man, hitting him again and again with the heavy cane like a garrote,   
eliciting a sharp scream of pain from Rush every time that the silver   
pommel stroke his body.  
  
Taking a deep breath, the usually collected British Watcher clenched his   
teeth and raised the cane over his head.  
  
"Bad kitty," he growled, ready to deliver a final powerful blow to the   
man's head.  
  
The cane was already starting to trace out the falling arc when a when it   
was yanked from his hands by an invisible force and, carried by his own   
momentum, Giles stumbled on his feet, making an effort not to fall to the   
floor at Rush's side.  
  
Raising his shocked eyes, Giles watched helpless how the cane floated in   
the air, flying away from him until a human hand trapped it, rendering it   
motionless.  
  
Waving the cane, Conrad Swann pointed at the Watcher with it, shaking his   
head in disappointment. The one-eyed warlock looked like crap, his elegant   
clothes wrinkled and torn, his skin haggard and streaked with dried blood,   
but his only blue eye was flaming with rage as he looked at Giles, wanting   
to stab him.  
  
"You are a lousy host, Rupert," Swann whispered, shaking the cane at him.   
"A very impolite one."  
  
Giles snorted and rolled his eyes. "Well, I'm at the guests' level. This   
will do me good for the next time I decide to throw a party, I suppose."  
  
The warlock smiled widely, in spite of his angered state. Throwing the   
cane aside, he raised his two hands with their palms up, twin blue balls   
of energy already forming in them. "Don't you worry, my friend. We won't   
bother you for long."  
  
"You can say that again, Conrad," a feminine voice said near them. "You   
won't bother anyone else ever again."  
  
As Crystal came into the room majestically, her white robes shining in the   
dim darkness, Swann turned around in flash and launched his flaming blue   
balls against her. The red-haired witch simply raised her left arm and a   
small vortex appeared in front of her open hand, absorbing the energy   
blasts and making them disappear into its swirling bowels.  
  
Releasing a dry laugh, Swann shook his head in amazement as the witch   
lowered her hand and looked at him with calm green eyes. "Always as fast   
and silent as a snake, aren't you Crystal? It's nice to see that you're   
still in good shape, my darling."  
  
She shrugged, slowly walking towards Giles and offered an obviously faked   
soft smile to him. "I like to work out regularly."  
  
Leaning down, she helped Giles to stand up and checked that the   
middle-aged man wasn't severely injured. "Are you OK, Rupert?"  
  
"Why is everybody asking me that today?" he asked, shaking his head and   
rearranging his clothes. The witch offered him a smile, a real one this   
time, and rolled her eyes.  
  
"Yes," he whispered, returning the smile, "I'm not exactly alright, but   
I'll get better."  
  
"Very well then," she said, turning to look down at Rush's squirming   
figure on the floor. "I don't know who you are, what you want or why   
you're here, but I'm giving you one chance to leave now unharmed. Well,"   
she corrected herself with a half smile, "not more harmed, at least."  
  
The black man hissed at her, baring his fangs from the floor and the   
witch's eyes started to glow, crackling blue lightning coming out of her   
jade-green orbs.  
  
"I won't say it twice."  
  
Choosing the better part of valor, Rush rolled to his hands and knees and   
stood up, growling one last time at them before turning around and running   
away, escaping through the broken window.  
  
The feline-man stopped for a moment, crouched down on the frame of the   
window, and looked at them over his shoulder, his blazing eyes the only   
discernible feature on his face in the darkness.  
  
Then, without uttering a word, he leaped outside, disappearing into the   
night.  
  
"Smart kitty," Giles murmured, holding back a shiver.  
  
"The same goes for you, Conrad," Crystal told the warlock then, her eyes   
still blazing like a lightning storm. "Unless you prefer to stay, of   
course."  
  
The warlock smiled at her with delight, tilting his head to one side. "Do   
you want to remember old times, my dear?"  
  
Shaking her head, Crystal's features became as hard as steel. "I wish I   
could erase those 'old times' from my mind, Conrad. I wish I could erase   
you from my past. Now, I know I can't do that," she whispered raggedly,   
raising a fist which was now glowing exactly like her eyes, "but I still   
can erase you off the surface of the Earth."  
  
"I bet you'd like that, Crystal." Slowly, he spread his arms wide as both   
sides of his body. "But I'm afraid I neither have the time nor the energy   
for such a confrontation right now. You have... interesting friends,   
Crystal, especially that pretty young redhead. We'll have to talk later,   
like I talked with her."  
  
"You bastard!" she yelled at him, losing her usually calm composure as   
sparkling lightning bolts came out her fingers in the warlock's direction.  
  
His laughter resounded in the room as his body began to spin around on the   
spot, enveloped into a whirlwind of golden sparks. Cris' blue lightning   
bolts crackled around the small tornado, shunted aside by it, until he   
simply vanished in an explosion of sparks with a final laugh.  
  
The whirlwind slowed its pace and finally stopped, allowing the soft   
dust-bunnies it had lifted to float down to the floor.  
  
Shaking his head in wonder, Giles allowed himself to lean back against the   
wall and release a long, tired sigh of relief now that everything seemed   
to be over. "Teleportation... incredible. Who was that man?"  
  
With her green eyes fixed on the spot that Swann had occupied barely   
seconds ago, Crystal bit her lower lip, fighting down the tears and the   
pain in the deepest part of her soul.  
  
"My ex-fiancé," she whispered, before looking straight at him.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
When Rush appeared in the window frame, growling and salivating like the   
angry beast that he was, Kyle turned around instinctively, raising his   
shotgun with one hand and pulling the trigger.  
  
But, instead of the expected explosion, the only sound that came from the   
Benelli was the click of its firing-pin hitting an empty chamber and the   
tall Texan remembered that he had emptied the tubular magazine in the   
feline-man's brother.  
  
"Oh, shit," he grunted, as Rush leaped in his direction with his claws out   
and ready.  
  
His jump, however, was cut short as Oz got in the middle of his path,   
already turning into his lupine self and grabbing the taller black man,   
taking him away from Kyle.  
  
The werewolf spun around and pinned him against the trunk of a near tree,   
slamming his clawed fist into his throat before cutting him with a   
crescent slash from his abdomen to the upper side of his chest.  
  
The feline-man howled in pain and slashed wildly with his claws, making Oz   
duck under them and exposing his chin for the feline to knee him away.  
  
Kyle was reaching for his revolver when something, a sixth sense, made him   
look over his shoulder and turn around. Talon was standing up, holding his   
numerous wounds with his hands, trying to hold back the profuse   
hemorrhaging.  
  
"Favorite son," he hissed at him, "with me your fight is. With you my debt   
is. Don't you want to pay it?"  
  
Looking at him through half-closed, hard eyes, Kyle's fingers abandoned   
the grip of his revolver, leaving the gun holstered under his left arm and   
reached out to the small of his back.  
  
Very slowly, he unsheathed his Bowie knife and raised the ten-inch blade,   
which shone silver in the pale moonlight. "I want," he whispered raggedly.  
  
For a brief moment, he saw the reflection of his face on the polished   
surface of the blade, and he wasn't able to recognize himself. Too pale,   
too scared, too furious to be him.  
  
"I want," he repeated.  
  
In the distance, the wail of the police sirens was heard, shattering the   
night as they approached to them.  
  
Talon looked at the source of the sound for a brief moment, and then   
looked back at the tall Texan, his twisted features dyed with the red and   
the blue of the upcoming police lights. "I will do, favorite son. You will   
have your chance, don't doubt it. Rush!"  
  
The younger and taller man, which was facing a growling Oz, turned his   
head to look at his brother and nodded, retreating in his direction after   
giving a last menacing hiss to the red-haired werewolf.  
  
"Play later, doggie?" he asked, with his characteristic hyena laugh.  
  
Changing back, Oz looked at him with his yellow eyes. "You can bet on it."  
  
The two human beasts got together and quickly ran away from the scene as   
Oz walked closer to the tall Texan, who was following at their retreating   
forms with an ominous look.  
  
Rush's laughter was heard one last time, as they disappeared into the   
darkness and Kyle finally relaxed his stance, lowering his knife and   
exhaling a long breath.  
  
"I guess this is the end," Oz said, wiping the blood from his now human   
face with the back of his hand, and only succeeding in smearing it over   
his pale features.  
  
"Not by any means," Kyle whispered to him, his blue yes still fixed on the   
spot where the two Pantera brothers had disappeared. "Not if I have   
anything to do with it."  
  
The young werewolf nodded and suddenly grimaced in pain, holding his   
shoulder where Rush had bitten him. In his human form, only covered by the   
remains of his torn jeans, the wounds had became smaller. But they were   
still bleeding, and he was starting to feel lightheaded because of the   
blood loss.  
  
"How's Willow?" he asked Kyle, shaking his head to stay conscious.  
  
"In the hospital, which is where you're going right now, buddy," the tall   
Texan told him, getting a shocked and worried look from the younger man.  
  
Surrounding Oz's shoulders with his arm, Kyle allowed him to lean on his   
stronger figure. "Don't worry, Oz, we'll take care of everything now, OK?   
Everything's going to be alright."  
  
As the young werewolf nodded weakly, leaning fully on him and closing his   
cool blue eyes, Kyle smiled weakly and raised his head. He started shaking   
his head with a notorious lack of amusement, when the Sunnydale Police   
Department made its grand entrance, sirens and lights blasting in the cold   
night.  
  
Three patrol cars parked in front of the building, their tires screeching   
on the asphalt as their drivers crossed them, blocking the street.  
  
It wasn't until the officers started to get out of the vehicles and draw   
their guns that Kyle thought about how he must look; holding a practically   
naked, bleeding and severely wounded young man.  
  
Not to mention that fact that he was still fencing a knife long enough to   
be considered a sword. He closed his eyes, and cursed under his breath.   
"Shit."  
  
"Police officers!!" one of the cops shouted, aiming at him with his   
pistol. "Let him go!"  
  
Throwing his knife down, Kyle carefully leaned Oz's semi-unconscious form   
against the near tree and lifted his arms.  
  
"This is not what it looks like!" he exclaimed as a couple of officers   
pulled him away from Oz and pushed him to the ground, burying his face in   
the muddy grass.  
  
The cops handcuffed his hands behind his back, and he grunted when the   
fetters finally closed around his wrists. "Look you guys, I have an   
explanation for all this."  
  
"Yeah, and we'd love to hear it down at the precinct, buddy," the leading   
officer said as he took Kyle's revolver from under his jacket. Yanking at   
his hair to raise his head, the cop put the gun at a couple of inches from   
his nose and smiled. "And I'd love to hear how you can explain this."  
  
"I have a permit for that," the Texan growled, shaking his head to free   
his hair from the officer's painful grasp. "Look in my back pocket, jerk.   
I'm a Federal agent!"  
  
The cops exchanged a short and shocked look, and then the leading officer   
did as he was told, extracting a small leather wallet from the back pocket   
of Kyle's jeans.  
  
Opening it, he released a long whistle. "Well, guys," he told his   
partners, showing them the FBI badge and ID card, "looks like he's telling   
the truth, he's a Fed."  
  
The cop smiled, and used the closed wallet to slap the back of Kyle's   
head. "Then I guess you already know your rights, uh, Agent. Get him into   
the car, guys."  
  
As the cops made him stand up, painfully yanking at his handcuffed hands,   
Kyle shook his head tiredly, growling between his clenched teeth. "Today's   
definitely my lucky day."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
"What are you waiting for?" Cordelia asked Xander, seeing that he made no   
sign of starting to chase the escaping Humvee.  
  
Arching his brow, the young vampire simply killed the engine and the bike   
became silent and quiet with a soft shake, as he freed up the brakes.   
"What are you doing?" she asked again  
  
"No, what are you doing, Cordy?" he asked back at her, his intense dark   
eyes full of puzzlement. Taking her chin delicately on his hand, he gently   
made her tilt her head to one side and the other, examining the bruised   
and cuts on her face.  
  
A low growl escaped his throat, and he frowned deeply. "And who's   
responsible for this?"  
  
She sighed tiredly, softly taking her chin away from his fingers and   
looking straight at his eyes. "Don't worry about me, Xander. I can take   
care of myself."  
  
"Well, it doesn't look like it from this side, Cordy. Are you trying to   
kill yourself, or what?"  
  
Looking at him through half-closed eyes, Cordelia pointed at the way the   
Humvee had disappeared to. "We don't have time for this, Xander. If you   
want to have a fight, fine, but we'll have it later. Now they have the   
cross, and they're escaping! So start this damn thing, and follow them!"  
  
Xander looked briefly at the end of the street and them looked back at her   
with perplexity. "The cross? What cross?"  
  
Cordelia closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to keep her temper   
under control. "The du Lac Cross," she practically growled at him under   
her breath. "Those people took it, they almost killed us to get it!  
  
The perplexity on his expression lasted for a few more moments, until the   
lightbulb of recognition was finally switched on inside his head. "The   
Cross-O-Matic?"  
  
This time, it was Cordelia's expression that was the puzzled one. "The   
what?"  
  
Shaking his head, Xander started the engine of the bike, accelerating a   
couple of times on the spot. "It doesn't matter," he murmured looking at   
her over his shoulder and putting on his sunglasses. "But you're right   
about one thing, Cordy. We'll talk about this later."  
  
Without any warning, Xander yanked at the handlebars and, raising the   
front wheel, he accelerated suddenly. Caught by surprise, Cordelia lost   
her equilibrium and fell backwards.  
  
The only thing she could do not to crash painfully against the hard   
asphalt was to jump back and let the bike go away, knowing that if she   
grabbed Xander and tried to stay on the seat she would only succeed in   
being dragged along the ground.  
  
"Xander!!" she yelled, shaking her arms awkwardly not to lost her footing.   
Raising her eyes, she watched helplessly as the black and silver dragster   
ran away from her, carrying her lover with it. "You'll pay for this,   
Xander Harris!!"  
  
Cursing under her breath, Cordelia turned around and started to run away,   
wishing she could kick her boyfriend's butt.  
  
If Xander had heard her, he didn't show any sign of it. The young vampire   
just let the front wheel fall to the road and accelerated with a roar of   
the powerful 4-cylinder engine, getting into the chase of the black   
Humvee.  
  
"And now," he growled as he crouched down behind the handlebars, allowing   
the wind to ruffle his longish hair and flutter his leather jacket, "let's   
go for the funny part."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Tossing the grenade-launcher to the side, Havoc relaxed in the back seat   
of the Humvee, leaning his head against the headrest and closing his eyes   
while Backlash drove both of them home.  
  
"I still can't believe it, buddy," the Australian mercenary said, shaking   
his head. "I can't believe they killed Santero, he was one damn tough   
bastard."  
  
"Apparently he wasn't tough enough," the Scandinavian man muttered,   
raising his eyes to the ceiling. He took the du Lac Cross in his hand, and   
examined it closely. "At least we got this thing. I just hope it's worth   
it."  
  
Looking at him through the rear-view mirror, Backlash munched nervously on   
his lower lip. "What are we going to tell the Colonel?"  
  
Havoc shrugged, shaking his head. "The truth, I guess."  
  
His companion didn't like how that sounded, but he abstained from making   
any comment, knowing that it was neither the time or place. Whatever would   
be, would be.  
  
He just hoped it wouldn't end with a 9mm bullet in his forehead.  
  
Backlash took the walkie-talkie from the dashboard, and pushed the   
speaking button. "Daddy Goose? This is Receptor Team, we have the ball, I   
repeat, we have the ball. Over."  
  
"Hey, nice to hear from you at last!" Chopper's voice came with a snort of   
sarcasm. "We saw the firecrackers, can you tell me what the hell you were   
doing?"  
  
"Throwing a party," The Australian growled. "Listen, we have casualties.   
Santero's dead."  
  
There was a moment of silent in the radio before the pilot's voice came   
again, doubtful and incredulous. "Santero? Dead?"  
  
"Yeah, dead! Don't make me repeat it again, OK?" Backlash told him with   
annoyance. "We're going back to the mansion and we'll report there. You   
just keep our path open."  
  
A thousand feet above them, inside the cockpit of the black Huey   
helicopter, Chopper checked the glowing green screens and monitors showing   
him the images provided by the enhanced night-vision cameras and shook his   
head.  
  
"Well, buddy, in that case I should tell you something: you have a   
parasite on your tail," he told the other man.  
  
"What?" Instinctively, Backlash looked over his shoulder and Havoc   
imitated him, checking the darkened road behind them through the rear   
windshield.  
  
The light of a single headlamp blinded him for a second, and Havoc had to   
make an effort not to hit something in rage and frustration.  
  
"Shit," he growled, recovering his weapon, "is this going to end any time   
soon?"  
  
Behind the steering wheel, Backlash shook his head, tossing the   
walkie-talkie back on the dashboard and pressing down on the gas pedal.   
"It doesn't look like it."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
With the road practically free of traffic once the darkness had fallen on   
Sunnydale, Xander didn't need much time to get on the trail of the   
escaping Humvee. The fact was that he was riding his Yamaha like a demon,   
using the straight roadways to reach the bike's maximum speed and taking   
the curves at the limit of its endurance.  
  
To the point that every time he leaned down to one side of a curve, he   
could hear the scratching and see the sparks flying, with the contact of   
the exhaust pipes against the rough asphalt.  
  
All the way, he considered the implications of what was happening. The du   
Lac Cross? Why? And why now? Who could be responsible for what was going   
on? What did they need the cross for? And what was the connection with   
Faith's appearance? Was it a mere coincidence?  
  
He didn't believe that. It had to be related.  
  
But now, barely ten meters behind the black military vehicle he couldn't   
help but smile smugly as he centered on the matter at hand. When he got   
them, they were going to have a little nice talk.  
  
And after that, he would see what he would do with them for hurting his   
friends. He hadn't decided yet, but the idea of leaving them in Spike's   
hands and turning around, was looking better and better with each passing   
second.  
  
Then, he remembered the bruises on Cordelia's face and the idea of Willow   
being taken to the hospital, and decided that Spike wouldn't have all the   
fun for himself.  
  
Squeezing the gas control one last time, Xander speeded up and finally   
reached the Humvee, moving to the vehicle's left. Riding side by side, he   
held the handlebars with his right hand made an unmistakable sign towards   
the two men inside the black off-road, indicating them to stop.  
  
The man in the back seat, a huge blonde with red streaks of blood covering   
his upper lip and cheeks, returned him the sign with his middle finger and   
started to roll down the window.  
  
Xander saw the weapon in his hands and released a resigned sigh, returning   
his left hand to the handlebars and accelerating suddenly.  
  
As Havoc leaned out the open window, ready to aim at the annoying young   
man with his gun, the black Yamaha raised its front wheel and got ahead   
the Humvee. Completely passing it and crossing the road from left to   
right, to finally end up on the black vehicle's opposite side.  
  
"Shit," Havoc growled, getting his large body out of the window, so he   
could aim at the leather-clad biker over the Humvee's roof, "I'm going to   
kick your ass to next week, kiddo!"  
  
Looking at the vehicle over his shoulder and from behind his sunglasses,   
Xander flipped his leather jacket open and, smiling evilly, brought his   
left hand to the small of his back and the butt of his sidearm.  
  
In a single movement, the young vampire drew out the H&K USP Compact and   
braked with complete precision, engulfing the bike into a white cloud of   
burnt rubber coming from the rear tire as it slid over the road,   
completely blocked.  
  
Moving at a suddenly superior speed, the Humvee passed in an exhalation by   
his left and Xander pulled the trigger like a madman the moment it reached   
his mark, using the black off-road's own movement to spray its surface   
with a wave of flying bullets.  
  
Inside, Havoc and Backlash dived down to the floor and covered their heads   
as the rain of lead ripped golden sparks from the metallic surface of the   
truck and shattered the windows into a thousand fragments of glass.  
  
Free of its driver's hands, the Humvee began to lurch from one side of the   
road to the other, its frame shaking every time the wheels hit the curb.  
  
"What the...?!?" Backlash shouted, quickly grabbing the steering wheel and   
regaining control of the vehicle.  
  
Behind the black off-road, Xander freed up the brakes and accelerated   
again, raising his pistol and emptying the rest of his 13-round magazine   
into the back part of the Humvee.  
  
The rear window exploded, covering the road with shattered fragments of   
glass as the young vampire noticed the emergency fuel cans hanging from   
their trappings and smiled evilly, firing his remaining shots against   
them.  
  
The cans blew up in a ball of fire that engulfed half the vehicle, and   
lifted its rear axle off the ground. Unbalanced by the shock wave of the   
explosion, the Humvee bounced wildly along the road, with its rear part   
still in flames.  
  
Returning the empty gun to its holster in the small of his back, Xander   
pursued the off-road as it moved seemingly out of control, jumping over   
the traffic island separating the lanes and getting into the exit leading   
to the outskirts of the town.  
  
=Good,= he thought, =at least I'll minimize the damage.=  
  
Back into the Humvee, Havoc released his weapon and grabbed the fire   
extinguisher, quickly using it to extinguish the flames before they   
completely engulfed the vehicle.  
  
"That guy's starting to really piss me off!" he roared, tossing the   
extinguisher aside and recovering his weapon.  
  
Backlash caught a glimpse of a sign, announcing the proximity of the local   
mall as they passed it at top speed. The Australian mercenary spun the   
steering wheel violently, forcing the vehicle to skid on the road and   
taking the exit leading to the shopping complex.  
  
"Let's see if he's so eager to use gunfire near civilians," he growled,   
thinking that, of course, they wouldn't have the same problem.  
  
Using the butt of the grenade-launcher to rip the broken remains of glass   
from the window-frame, Havoc leaned out again and quickly aimed at Xander,   
pulling the trigger.   
  
"Oh, no," Xander cursed with a growl, seeing the flying grenade coming in   
his direction in slow motion.  
  
Braking, the young vampire swung the bike around and skidded laterally   
like a dirt track rider, leaning down and keeping his equilibrium with his   
extended leg. The projectile passed over his lowered head and blew up over   
the empty road behind him, exploding into a ball of fire and dark smoke   
that sent a cloud of razor-sharp shrapnel in every direction.  
  
As a tiny but burning piece of shrapnel opened a bleeding line on his   
right cheek, Xander used the momentum of the explosion to complete the   
spin and, with his rear wheel emitting white smoke, accelerated on the   
trail of the black Humvee.  
  
"Who is that guy?" Havoc asked amazed, as Backlash drove the Humvee into   
the ample parking lot of the mall by the wrong lane, almost crashing   
against a Volvo station-wagon that was innocently trying to come out.   
"Evel Kneivel?"  
  
Behind them, the driver of the Volvo did a violent maneuver to dodge the   
Humvee and ended up at the entrance of the parking lot, crashing against   
the guard's empty stand.  
  
The stand collapsed into a pile of broken boards of wood and plastic as   
the Volvo's engine died, blocking the entrance completely and making   
Xander jam on the brakes not to crash against them.  
  
Skidding sideways again, the young vampire managed to stop the Yamaha   
barely a couple of inches from the family car.  
  
"Move it!" Xander shouted to the driver of the Volvo, a man on his late   
forties who looked at him with frightened eyes.  
  
Over the station wagon's roof, the young vampire saw helplessly how the   
Humvee got farther and farther away towards the mall as, through the   
broken rear window, Havoc waved him goodbye with a wide smile. "Federal   
agent, get this piece of junk out of my way!"  
  
The driver of the Volvo nodded weakly and twisted the key inside the   
ignition, but the car's engine refused to come back to life, coughing and   
shaking.  
  
Clenching his teeth and stifling a curse, Xander took a fast look around,   
checking the position of the Humvee, his own vehicle, the tall wire-fence   
surrounding the parking lot and the rows of cars still parked on them.  
  
Sighing, Xander shook his head. "I gotta be losing my head," he whispered   
as he squeezed the gas control and rode away from the Volvo for several   
tens of meters, before turning around and facing the fence.  
  
Reaching out to the small of his back, he drew out the USP Compact and   
released its empty clip, quickly getting a fresh one from the pocket of   
his leather jacket and driving it into the butt of the gun. He let out a   
long sigh, and closed his eyes for a second.  
  
"I have completely lost it," he growled, as he revved up the engine.  
  
The bike was launched forward like a missile towards the tall fence, the   
space separating them getting shorter and shorter with every turn of the   
wheels.  
  
Clenching his teeth, Xander lifted his gun and fired four times, hitting   
twice each one of the two upper links joining the first panel to the tall   
posts holding it.  
  
The impact of the bullets ripped the links away from the panel and, when   
the bike's front wheel impacted against it, the panel fell forward until   
it crashed with the roof of the nearest parked car, ending like a ramp.  
  
Xander drove the Yamaha over the make-shift ramp at top speed, flying into   
the air when he reached its end and tracing out a perfect arc. Until the   
young vampire landed on the rear wheel with a scream of protest from the   
vehicle's suspension, and a shake of the whole structure.  
  
Leaving behind the blocked entrance, Xander sped in search of the black   
Humvee and finally found it some yards ahead of his position, moving at   
more speed than what should be safe for the pedestrians nearby as its   
driver searched for an exit from the parking lot.  
  
As Xander pursued the off-road vehicle, the people who were coming out of   
the near mall with all their purchases, completely oblivious to what was   
going outside, ran away from the path of the huge truck.  
  
It seemed to them to have a liking for the exposed parts of the parked   
cars, so many times it was crashing against them.  
  
"Aaaarrgh!!" Backlash shouted in frustration, violently spinning the   
wheel. "Where's the bloody exit?"  
  
"Why don't you stop and ask a cop, mate?" Havoc asked him with a grimace   
of hostility, as his partner's mad handling sent him bouncing from one   
side of the back seat to the other.  
  
Taking a look outside, he noticed the leather-clad biker getting   
dangerously near to them, again in pursuit. "Oh, hell," he groaned,   
"doesn't he ever get tired?"  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
On the nightly sky above the mall, the black Huey was almost invisible as   
its pilot made its nose-dive down and lost height. In the cockpit, Chopper   
checked the different screens and monitors and shook his head with a mix   
of wonder and amusement, seeing the chaos and mayhem that his partners   
were causing in the parking lot.  
  
"Those two couldn't find their own butts," he groaned through the   
microphone of his helmet.  
  
In the cargo area behind him, Sniper nodded his agreement as he secured   
himself, fastening a safety cord from his belt to a steel ring on the   
frame of the sliding side door.  
  
"Not even using both hands and a mirror," the gunman said with a smile, as   
he opened the door and a wave of cold air came into the helicopter along   
with the thundering rattle of the rotors.  
  
"Get lower," he said as he took off the safety of his sniper rifle and   
brought its butt against his shoulder, "and I'll take care of the guy in   
black."  
  
Chopper nodded without answering him and pushed the altitude lever down,   
making the aircraft lose height once more. Licking his lips and smiling,   
Sniper observed the scenery of the parking lot through the lens of the   
rifle's scope.  
  
His cold eyes needed just a second to get accustomed to the difference,   
and a few moments later the unwavering muzzle of the Dragunov SVD was   
aiming at the young biker's figure, the crosshairs placed right on his   
head.  
  
"So there you are," Sniper whispered with a wide, sadistically pleased   
smile as his finger curved on the trigger, "come to Daddy..."  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Xander's sharp vampire ears detected the sound of the helicopter's rotor   
blades, but it was a different sixth sense what made him risk a fast look   
up over his shoulder, the feeling of being watched, of having someone   
breathing directly down his neck.  
  
Arching his brow in wonder, he found the insect-like aircraft about 150   
feet above and behind him, quickly descending over the parking lot and,   
half a second later, he noticed the weapon pods at both sides.  
  
Obviously it wasn't a civilian aircraft, and he doubted very much that he   
was coming in to help him.  
  
=Another piece of the puzzle,= he thought as he violently made the bike   
turn to the left, passing through the narrow space between two parked   
cars. A wave of bullets started to rain down around him, shattering the   
cars' glass windows and opening small rounded holes on their metallic   
frames.  
  
Jamming on the brakes, Xander stopped the bike between the two cars and,   
keeping his head down, he took off his sunglasses and released a long   
tired sigh as he wiped the sweat from his forehead.  
  
Putting the shades back on, the young vampire looked over the edge of the   
car's roof and saw the helicopter positioning over the rows of parked   
cars, a man on its side acting as a gunner with a sniper rifle.  
  
He calculated the distance between them and estimated that it couldn't be   
less than seventy meters, too much for anyone of his handguns and, at the   
same time, just a walk through the park for the shooter's rifle.  
  
Biting his lower lip, Xander lowered his head as the helicopter's gunner   
read his thoughts and fired once again, the bullet hitting the roof of the   
car and ripping sparks from it.  
  
Looking around, Xander located the black Humvee at the end of the lane in   
front of him. It was lost in the maze of the parking lot and turning   
around once again, with its fat tires engulfed in white clouds of smoke.  
  
=Time to raise the stakes a little,= the young vampire thought, as he   
turned his head to look at the car parked at his left, an aged Ford LTD   
with a rusty but thick frame.  
  
=Time, indeed,= he repeated to himself as he punched the window of the   
passenger's door with his bare fist, shattering the glass into a thousand   
pieces.  
  
Grabbing the lower edge of the window, oblivious to the pain that been   
caused in his hand by the broken fragments of glass, Xander ripped the   
whole door from the frame and turned it around so he could grab it by the   
interior handle.  
  
Then, he accelerated and came out of his hiding spot in a new cloud of   
burnt rubber.  
  
Riding like a dark, postmodern version of a medieval knight on a hellish   
horse, Xander used the makeshift shield to cover himself from the shots of   
the helicopter's gunner as he sped towards the black Humvee.  
  
He engaged the much bigger vehicle in a match to the death, the two of   
them face to face and getting dangerously closer with each passing   
heartbeat.  
  
"Stupid," Backlash growled behind the steering wheel, slamming down on the   
gas. "Crazy, suicidal son of a..."  
  
The powerful engine of the Humvee roared, and the bike's muscled one   
howled as the two vehicles closed the distance separating them in a flash.   
With his eyes fixed on the front fender of the Humvee, Xander ignored the   
shots raining around him.  
  
They hit his makeshift shield and made it tremble in his grasp, but all   
his attention was focused on the black off-road coming to him at the speed   
of light.  
  
Fifty meters, forty, thirty, twenty, ten...   
  
At the last moment Xander moved to the right, getting out of the truck's   
path as he swung his arm and threw the pierced and ripped-off door against   
the windshield of the vehicle.  
  
The thick door impacted against the front window with an explosion of   
glass and metal fragments that blinded the driver, turning the whole   
surface into a large web of cracks.  
  
Xander, even after completely passing the Humvee, skillfully made his bike   
turn around, now using the off-road's own frame as a shield against the   
helicopter.  
  
For a second, as he took his eyes away from the road and looked up through   
the driver's window, Xander saw the face of the man behind the wheel,   
turned towards him and wearing a mix or shock, rage and hate.  
  
Allowing his human mask to vanish, the young vampire sent a hard stare to   
the mercenary with his golden eyes blazing over the dark rim of his   
sunglasses, and a half-arrogant smile that showed in his sharp and pointed   
fangs.  
  
In Xander's modest opinion, the expression on the man's face was   
priceless.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
=The Devil,= Backlash thought, opening and closing his eyes to make sure   
that was he was seeing was real. Havoc awkwardly crawled between the front   
seats and bent his legs, so he could kick the door sticking through the   
broken windshield off of the Humvee's hood.  
  
They were being chased by Satan himself. That was the only explanation he   
could think of that satisfied him, because any other one didn't fit.  
  
"What the hell are you doing, Backlash?" he heard Havoc asking him with   
high-pitched voice. "Look ahead!"  
  
As if he had heard his partner, the golden-eyed, dark-haired demon   
signaled ahead with his index finger, still giving him a cocky grin, and   
returned his hand to the black and silver bike's handlebars, accelerating   
and passing them with mocking ease.  
  
Shocked by the entire situation, the Australian mercenary could only   
follow the biker's figure as the Yamaha crossed the road in front of them   
to their right side, and his attention was captured his customized license   
plate, hanging lopsided under the bike's taillight:  
  
CALIFORNIA - XAND16.  
  
The dark-haired biker, his face human again, flashed a new smile at him   
that was no less cocky and edged than the one of his demonic self. Then he   
braked without warning, allowing him to get away seemingly without any new   
attempt to stop him.  
  
"I told you to look ahead!!" Havoc roared at that very moment, shaking him   
out of his reverie.  
  
"What the..."  
  
The Australian mercenary finally looked ahead, only to see the wide glass   
doors of the mall's main entrance barely two meters from the hood of the   
vehicle he was driving.  
  
Two meters that vanished in the blink of an eye.  
  
"Oooh," Backlash heard his companion moan as the Humvee bounced on the   
tiny step in from of the door and jumped up, flying through them as they   
exploded into a cascade of tiny but sharp fragments, the sound from the   
impact covered by the engine's mighty roar.  
  
"You're an idiot, Backlash! An idiot, you stupid son of a bitch!!"  
  
"Hey!" The Australian man told his companion as the off-road landed with a   
final bounce and he fought to keep control, "Don't diss my mother!!"  
  
Backlash drove the Humvee into the spacious main hallway of the mall, not   
caring less about the people remaining there as he slammed down on the gas   
with all his strength.  
  
He couldn't help but smile, although he couldn't hear their screams,   
silenced by the powerful sound of the engine and the thunder of his blood   
in his eardrums. But their panicked faces as they jumped out of the   
massive off-road's way, were worthy of being remembered.  
  
"Oh, man, I wish I had a camera," he chuckled, genuinely amused as the   
front fender crashed against a big flower pot, cracking it open into an   
explosion of broken plaster and flying chunks of soggy earth.  
  
The plant, a small palm tree, fell on the hood of the Humvee and was   
flipped over its roof when Backlash spun the steering wheel to the right.   
He dodged the line of decorating flower pots and benches that formed a row   
in the center of the hallway, moving now in the right lane they formed.  
  
"Yeah," Havoc growled, looking at him sideways and with hostility, "we   
could star in America's Most Sadistic Videos or something. Could you just   
get us outta here, please?"  
  
"Sure, mate," the Australian nodded, looking at the rear-view mirror, "the   
moment you get that guy off my ass."  
  
Havoc turned his head to look over his shoulder, and saw the dark-haired   
biker arriving into the mall behind them. His black Yamaha was flying some   
inches over the polished floor as its front wheel bounced on the step on   
the entrance, before finally landing with a loud thud and a soft screech   
from its suspension.  
  
Closing his eyes, the Scandinavian man released a low curse under his   
breath. "That guy," he growled, "is taking this way too far!"  
  
Chuckling, Backlash nodded his agreement. "He is a real die-hard, isn't   
he?"  
  
As looked at the biker over the headrest of his seat, Havoc grabbed his   
grenade-launcher and opened its revolver-like chambers. Loading an   
incendiary projectile on the first chamber, the mercenary closed it with a   
loud snap of its lock and leaned outside through the open window.  
  
"Not for long," Havoc murmured, aiming at the floor between the biker and   
their own vehicle.  
  
He pulled the trigger and the grenade came out of the launch tube in a   
dark cloud of smoke, flying directly towards Xander's upcoming figure.  
  
=Haven't we already done this before?= the young vampire thought in the   
space of a heartbeat, his enhanced vampire vision making him see   
everything as if in slow motion.  
  
Then, the grenade touched ground and exploded into a big ball of fire that   
reached from one side of the hallway to the other, the flames rising up   
into a wall that divided the way into two separated parts.  
  
"Son of a...!" Xander cursed out loud, slamming on the brakes at the same   
that he swung the bike around and skidded laterally once more, getting   
dangerously close to the wall of flames in spite of the quickly decreasing   
speed of his Yamaha.  
  
Clenching his teeth, knowing he had to take the risk or lose the game,   
Xander leaned down and allowed his bike to completely fall down,   
swallowing a scream of pain when his leg was trapped between the still   
sliding vehicle and the floor beneath.  
  
Reaching out, he extended his arm and dug his claws into the floor,   
leaving parallel marks on the polished floor as he used them to decrease   
his speed. Sparks flew at the contact of his nails with the fake marble,   
until he finally stopped at no more than a couple of feet from the flaming   
obstacle.  
  
The intensity of the heat made the display windows from the nearby shops   
explode, flooding the hallway with a rain of shattered glasses as their   
contents started to burn.  
  
As the fire extinguishers in the ceiling were finally activated, the   
interior of the mall was suddenly submerged in a deluge and Xander, still   
lying on the floor, crawled awkwardly from under his overturned bike.  
  
He grimaced in pain, feeling his kneecap shattered and waited for a few   
seconds, breathing heavily as the artificial pouring rain drenched him to   
the bones and his broken bones started to rearrange by themselves inside   
the torn and bloodied leg of his black jeans.  
  
"Oww!! Damn!!" he screamed as his leg twisted of its own volition and his   
knee got into place. "That hurts!"  
  
The young vampire stood up slowly as the spray from the fire extinguishers   
fought with the fire, slowly extinguishing it. Looking through the   
decaying wall of flames, feeling his wet hair and his drenched clothes   
plastered to his body, Xander released a low growl from the innermost   
depths of his being.  
  
He took off his sunglasses, and examined its crackled lenses and twisted   
bridge.  
  
"I really liked these ones," he whispered, discarding them and yanking at   
the handlebars of his bike to make it stand up.  
  
Riding the Yamaha again, Xander started its engine and sped away from the   
firewall, the rear tire sending a spray of pulverized water from the pools   
formed in the floor.  
  
Before, he had just been angry. He accelerated back toward the entry and   
the twin sets of automatic escalators leading to the second floor, the   
blaze burning in his still golden eyes betrayed by the stoic tenseness on   
his handsome human face, hard as stone.  
  
Now, he was furious, and that wasn't a good thing. Not for anybody.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
  
To be continued... 


	9. Part 9 of 10

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book III, part 9 of 10  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general   
corrections by Theo  
  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow   
kissing and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial,   
Land of 'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline   
to accommodate it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy'   
happened a lot later than it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are   
only tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of   
Highlander-style immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole   
'Immortals have no parents and are found in a little basket' is a... um,   
the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada', so let's just ignore it, OK?  
  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit,   
merely for the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander,   
Willow, Oz, Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle   
Gorch, Quentin Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property   
of Joss Whedon, Warner Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of   
Highlander and the characters mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda   
Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the Society of Watchers) are the   
property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the   
World Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are   
copyright of their respective rights owners.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language,   
so any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my   
wonderful beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please   
be kind with me. I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child,   
believe me.  
  
SUMMARY: Broderick Egoyan has carefully chosen the right moment to strike,   
when friends are against friends and all trust seems about to vanish   
between Slayerettes and Archangels. It's right when you think things   
couldn't get worse that they get worse.  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen,   
because it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book III  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as The Sergeant  
Benjamin Bratt as Santero  
Trevor Goddar as Backlash  
Dolph Lundgren as Havoc  
Rob Rowland as Chopper  
Jake Busey as Sniper  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Matthew Ferguson as Chip  
  
Bill Paxton as Major Stephen Marsden, USAF  
Tom Sizemore as Master Sergeant Ricky Perkins, USAF  
John Leguizamo as Airman First Class Charlie Martinelli, USAF  
Mario Lopez as Airman First Class Alonso 'Bear' Vasquez, USAF  
Patrick Labyorteaux as Sergeant Edwin Walters, USAF  
  
Richard Dean Anderson as Col. Jack O'Neill, USAF  
Michael Shanks as Dr. Daniel Jackson  
Amanda Tapping as Maj. Samantha Carter, USAF  
Christopher Judge as Teal'c  
Don S. Davis as Gen. George Hammond, USAF  
Teryl Rothery as Dr. Janet Fraiser  
Tom McBeath as Col. Harry Mayborne, USAF  
Peter Deluise as Airman Shepard, USAF  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
and  
  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
As with many other things in Sunnydale, the local mall was a building   
surprisingly big and ample for such a small town. Two levels were built   
with the shape of a three-pointed star, with each one of its three wings   
being 200 meters long.  
  
In the exact center of the structure, right where those three arms joined,   
a large fountain of Greco-Roman design sat beneath a conical glass   
structure in the roof. One that provided a good dose of natural light   
during the daytime, and a marvelous vision of the starry Californian sky   
at night.  
  
Surrounding that fountain, a legacy of the deceased Richard Wilkins III,   
former mayor of the town and one of the most anxious promoters of the   
local economy in the last few years, the most exclusive, elegant and   
expensive shops opened their doors 24 hours a day.  
  
So the wealthier class of Sunnydale could waste their well-earned   
fortunes, as exuberantly as they possibly could.  
  
Of course, one could say that no real rich people would go to a mall for   
shopping or social exchange; but this was California, after all, and   
everybody knows that life in California is different from the rest of the   
so-called civilized world.  
  
Sitting within the terrace of the ground floor, outside the most expensive   
of those restaurants, three young women were seated in the middle of an   
ocean of shopping bags that showed the logos of the most fashionable   
stores.  
  
Their hands were busy with diet milkshakes as they tried to look as cool   
and stylish as possible, a thing they'd had years of practice at doing.  
  
"So, I told her..." one of them, the one that seemed to be the leading   
voice, said as her companions looked at her with what could only be   
described as absolute rapture, "I told her: how dare you come wearing my   
dress to my party!"  
  
The young brunette was obviously annoyed, and her friends nodded their   
agreement at the wisdom of her words. "I mean, it had to be some kind of   
cheap copy, because mine was an exclusive model from Valentino.   
Ex-clu-sive!"  
  
"I know what you mean, Aura," one of the other two girls, a blonde, said,   
nodding her agreement again, "I don't know who she thinks she is."  
  
The brunette rolled her eyes as her only response. "What do you think,   
Aphrodesia? A worthless loser, the world is full of them. She thinks that   
just because her father had some luck on the stock-market and made a few   
million, she's automatically a member of the upper class." She snorted   
with disdain. "Unbelievable."  
  
"Speaking of losers," the third girl entered into the conversation, "do   
you know who I saw last week?"  
  
The girl paused for dramatic effect, enjoying the curious stares of her   
companions, before finally dropping her bombshell. "Cordelia Chase."  
  
"The Fallen One?" Aura squeaked, almost choking on her diet shake.  
  
"I thought she was dead," the blonde said, blinking repeatedly with a   
puzzled stare.  
  
"Don't be a sheep, Aphrodesia," the third girl told her with a small   
frown. "Harmony was the one who died, Cordelia... well, now that I think   
about it, when she fell in love with that dweeb in high school, it was as   
if she had died. In terms of her social life, anyway."  
  
"Actually, if she had died, at least she'd have had a decent wake,"   
Aphrodesia agreed, shaking her head and needing a couple of seconds to   
notice her companions' stares. "What?"  
  
Far away from them, a distant growl of thunder was heard and the three   
young women raised their heads as one to the conical skylight in the   
ceiling. The night sky seemed clear and they shook their heads, going back   
to their conversation.  
  
"Well, tell us, Chastity," Aura inquired, intrigued, "what did she look   
like? Terrible, I guess."  
  
"Well, no, actually she looked kinda good," Chastity explained, arching   
her brow. "She was arm in arm with this absolutely gorgeous guy, coming   
out from Didier's after dinner."  
  
At the mention of Sunnydale's most expensive restaurant, Aura and   
Aphrodesia arched their own brows in unison.  
  
Aura said, "Didier's? I thought her father lost his entire fortune years   
ago, where did she find the money to pay for dinner there?"  
  
"Yeah," Aphrodesia agreed, "and who was the guy? Anybody we know?"  
  
Chastity shrugged. "I have no idea, both of them were like totally dressed   
fashionably and they seemed absolutely engrossed in each other. And I   
don't know who he was, sorry. Well... actually, he did seem kinda   
familiar, somehow."  
  
She paused. "Tall, dark hair, chocolate-brown eyes, a little pale but   
ab-so-lu-tely gorgeous. Anyway, I'm sure I would have recognized such a   
marvel of a man if I'd met him before."  
  
Smiling, Aura raised her diet shake in a mocking toast. "Well, well, well,   
little Cordelia Chase is getting back on track. And I thought that she was   
a lost cause..."  
  
Chastity nodded in agreement, chuckling along with her blonde friend. "Can   
you believe her? Still hanging with that weirdo Buffy Summers and all her   
friends from high school, after all this time. What a bunch of losers."  
  
Blinking in confused puzzlement, Aphrodesia looked alternately at both her   
friends. "We were friends in high school too," she stated, getting   
recriminating stares from them. "What?"  
  
Chastity was about to answer her when something caught her usually short   
span of attention and the young woman raised her surgery-sculpted nose,   
sniffing delicately. "Can't you smell it? It's as if something's burning!"  
  
The rumble of thunder was heard again, this time longer and more   
persistent, growing with each passing moment.  
  
"It's going to rain," Aphrodesia sighed, "and I've left my convertible's   
top down."  
  
"Nah," Aura stated firmly, "it's just a passing cloud. Anyway, we're under   
cover here."  
  
At that very moment, the fire extinguishers were activated and a thick   
rain fell on the three friends, drenching them to the bone and ruining   
their expensive clothes and make-up almost immediately.  
  
The three spoiled sheep got up from their seats, squeaking and yelping in   
shock and panic as they ran around. Apparently in search for some cover,   
but without doing anything more that move in circles and stumbling against   
themselves and their shopping-bags, turned into soaked heaps of paper and   
cloth scattered over the floor.  
  
"Aaargh!!" Aura screamed in righteous rage, looking too much like a   
drenched chicken for her own good. "My Dad is a lawyer! I'm going to sue   
the person responsible for this! I'm going to sue everybody!"  
  
A mechanical beast appeared then round the corner, an unleashed roar   
coming from under its metallic bowels as its fat rubber wheels slid   
laterally on the flooded floor, spraying water everywhere around its   
massive body.  
  
The beast, missing the three girls by mere inches, ran through the   
terrace, sending the tables and chairs on its way flying in all directions   
before finally colliding with the rim of the fountain.  
  
The black off-road's structure protested, as the front fender made the   
stone rim explode into a cloud of flying debris. Then, flying over the   
destroyed remains, it crashed against the statue in the center of the   
fountain, ripping it from its stand and then running over it, the whole   
vehicle bouncing and shaking madly on the course.  
  
Meanwhile, at few meters from there, Aura continued her hysterical tirade.   
"And I'm going to sue this place! And those people! All of them!"  
  
The Humvee's rear tires fell on the interior of the stone rim. For a   
moment, as the vehicle fought to regain stable traction, they spun freely   
and splashed all around a big wave of water that fell right on the   
screaming young woman, drenching her even more if such a thing was   
possible.  
  
With her spoiled hair plastered all over her face and her expensive attire   
turned into a wet ruin as her mascara ran down her face in dark streaks,   
Aura remained with her mouth opened wide in the middle of her angry   
tirade.  
  
She looked alternately at her shocked friends, and the now escaping   
off-road vehicle.  
  
"Well, dear," Aphrodesia told her, also taking her wet hair away from her   
face and smiling weakly at her friend, "at least you'll have something   
major to tell, at your next party."  
  
Aura just let out a stressed scream.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Looking at the desolation which Backlash was turning such a nice place   
into, Havoc shook his head in recrimination. "Who taught you to drive? A   
kangaroo?"  
  
"Nah," the Australian man shook his head as he used the Humvee's front   
fenders to smash a new set of flower pots and innocent benches. "It's just   
this bloody American car, all the controls are on the wrong side!"  
  
The Scandinavian mercenary shook his head again, and let out a tired sigh.   
"Well, at least it seems that we've gotten rid of our friend."  
  
"I bet it won't be long till we hear from him again," Backlash said with a   
smile lurking at the corner of his lips. "Whoever he is, he's a bloody   
grain of pus on our hairy asses."  
  
"Argh," Havoc grimaced with distaste, "what a disgusting image!"  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Back to the main entrance, Xander reached the metallic escalators as he   
awkwardly dodged the human tide of panicked customers that tried, without   
any kind of order or plan, to get out of the building as quick as   
possible, honking the bike's horn and shouting at them.  
  
"Come on! Come on! Get out of my way, people!! Federal agent chasing a   
suspect!! Get out of the goddamn way!!"  
  
It was like shouting at a brick wall, or trying to make the Red Sea part   
only with the force of his voice. Moses, at least, had had a damn   
shepherd's hook blessed by God.  
  
Growling with impotence, he slipped into his game face a roared at the top   
of his lungs, revving the engine up to the point that it was a deafening   
storm. "I said, get out of my way!!!"  
  
=Well,= he thought with an inner smile that didn't reach his lips as the   
crowd of people parted in front of him and left a narrow way for him to   
the beginning of the escalators, =talk about godsends and the parting of   
the Red Sea...=  
  
Around him, everything was in chaos as the people tried to escape from the   
storm produced by the fire-extinguishers and the wailing screams of the   
fire alarms.  
  
It didn't matter that there was no sign of fire or smoke; the crowd, like   
a single mindless being, had been touched by the panic, and the fear had   
washed over them faster than what any fire could had done.  
  
All that mattered to them was getting out of the building as fast as   
possible, to get far away from there without caring who they had to step   
on along the way, both figuratively and literally.  
  
Xander clenched his teeth and shook his head as he accelerated and climbed   
up the metallic stairs with his Yamaha, the black bike bouncing on every   
step of the way.   
  
Had he thought before that he could minimize the damage, both to people   
and property, by going to the town's outskirts?  
  
Well, he couldn't have been more wrong.  
  
Leaving the crowd behind, Xander reached the top of the escalators and did   
a fast mental run over what he remembered of the mall's situation and   
features. The hallway of the second floor lacked the central row of   
flower-pots and benches, separating it in two lanes.  
  
Instead, on that level the floor was more like two elevated walkways,   
separated by a large gap in the ground that allowed the customers to look   
down at the ground floor as they walked along them. Xander used it to try   
locating the escaped Humvee as he accelerated, taking advantage of the   
lack of pedestrians on that level.  
  
In a minute, he reached the center of the mall. He located the off-road,   
speeding up along the east wing of the building towards the glass doors at   
the end of that hallway, probably with the intention of getting out of the   
building the same way it had entered, although by another place.  
  
Xander sighed and headed in the same direction, using his heightened   
vampire vision to search for something, anything, he could use to make   
them stop. And then, as he raised his golden eyes for a second to dodge a   
missing pushcart, he saw it.  
  
At the end of each one of the three arms composing the building, the walls   
were completely made of glass, with automatic double doors on the ground   
level to facilitate the customers' entrance from any point of the parking   
lot.  
  
There were large, elegant open galleries on the second floor to give them   
good views as they enjoyed their ice creams, milk-shakes or hamburgers   
from any one of the fast-food restaurants that the mall housed.  
  
When he was a child, Xander had always wondered what one could find   
interesting in that view; as the only things that could be seen were the   
ample parking lot surrounding the building, and the highway and the web of   
roads at the end of it.  
  
As with many other things in Sunnydale, an indecipherable mystery but now,   
as he saw the large gangplank of the window-cleaners hanging outside over   
the entrance, a real blessing.  
  
Stopping the bike in the middle of the hallway, Xander reached into his   
leather jacket and drew his H&K USP Sport Stainless from its holster under   
his left arm, taking slow and carefully aim through its specially designed   
sights.  
  
There were a lot of good things about being a vampire. But as he aimed at   
the chains holding the window-cleaners' platform at more than fifty meters   
away from him, with his sharp supernatural eyes allowing him to see each   
one of the links with all their small imperfections and differences as if   
they were just an inch from his nose, Xander couldn't help but to marvel   
at his own abilities and possibilities.  
  
So much power, that he sometimes feared he would get drunk with it.  
  
Cocking the gun, Xander took a short breath and pulled the trigger with a   
sure and firm hand, not even flinching at the pistol's recoil. The gun   
backlashed in his hand, ejecting the empty case and loading a fresh round,   
and, even before the bullet hit its intended target, Xander fired again.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
"Bandits at two o'clock!" Backlash announced as he drove the Humvee at top   
speed to the glass gate that would allow them to get out the mall.  
  
Coming out from a side door and finally making their presence known, a   
pair of security guards wearing gray and police-like uniforms took   
positions by the double doors and aimed at the roaring off-road with their   
revolvers, firing them.  
  
As the weak .38 Special projectiles bounced back inoffensively on the   
thick metallic plates of the truck, Havoc leaned his grenade-launcher out   
of his side's window and fired an explosive grenade without bothering to   
take aim against them.  
  
The projectile passed over the men's heads and shattered the showcase of   
the store behind them, exploding in its interior with a ball of fire. It   
made the remaining glass on the windows fly off in a cloud of razor-sharp   
fragments, and the whole building tremble as if in the grip of an   
earthquake.  
  
When the shock wave and the conflagration hit them, the two security   
guards were ripped off from the floor as if like flowers by a tornado,   
spinning in the air as they were thrown away like broken puppets.  
  
"And that's a 0-2 score for the visiting team!" Backlash laughed,   
directing the Humvee towards the doors. "We're going out, mate!"  
  
At that very moment, the glass panels forming the open gallery on the   
second floor were shattered, as if by an invisible fist. Apparently, the   
same one that sliced the chains holding the window-cleaners' platform over   
the door.  
  
And made it fall down and crash against the ground, in a twisted mass of   
metal that blocked the exit.  
  
"Watch out!" Havoc alerted his partner needlessly, as he was already   
spinning the steering-wheel madly and stomping down on the brakes, making   
the Humvee's massive form skid laterally before turning around.  
  
"That goddamned son of a bloody whore!" the Australian roared with a   
mixture of anger and amazement as, from his vantage point, Xander emptied   
his pistol on them like a madman, the 9mm projectiles ripping sparks and   
digging holes on the hood and ceiling of the truck. "I swear that I'm   
gonna rip his head off, use his skull as a bucket and paint my house with   
his bloody brains!!"  
  
"Stop screaming nonsense and get us out of here!" Havoc shouted at him, at   
the very limits of his patience. "To the right! We'll get out using the   
last exit!"  
  
Backlash snorted and shook his head but did as told, accelerating again.   
"And if he tries to repeat the move?"  
  
Havoc pointed at the glass wall at the end of the building's wing, as they   
turned the corner and got into it. It was clean, with nothing that would   
obstruct their path and nothing that the young biker could throw at them.  
  
"Unless he decides to throw himself at us, he can't use anything to block   
the exit this time. Come on, pal, just step on the gas!"  
  
Backlash said nothing, he just clenched his hands around the steering   
wheel and did as he was told. But the truth was that by now, he was   
expecting anything coming from their chaser.  
  
Anything. Even a damned white rabbit coming out of a top hat.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Xander lost no time in holstering his gun and riding again on his Yamaha,   
to resume the pursuit. But the truth was that, much to his own annoyance,   
he was starting to run out of ideas and getting tired of the whole   
situation.  
  
He thought back to the way how the security guards had been blown away by   
the explosion and that he had no idea if they were alive, dead, seriously   
wounded or what.  
  
These guys had already gone too far, and he had to put an end to this as   
soon as possible.  
  
Anyway, he couldn't ignore the fact that the people in that car were   
criminals on the loose, that they had attacked and wounded his friends and   
that they had stolen something that was not only valuable but seriously   
dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands.  
  
And he had the feeling that, that was exactly where it was going. Directly   
into the worst possible hands.  
  
Arching his dark brow, Xander noticed that he had gotten ahead of the   
escaping Humvee, reaching the center of the mall with a couple of seconds   
advantage over his targets.  
  
A dark shadow passed over his head and he raised his yes to the conical   
glass structure on the ceiling, seeing the unmistakable shape of the black   
Huey passing over the building as it flew towards the opposite side of the   
mall.  
  
The beginnings of a plan took form inside his head and, although all his   
good sense screamed against the idea, he couldn't help but smile   
devilishly at it. Reaching to his waist, he activated the frequency   
scanner of his radio and adjusted the twin microphones over his throat.  
  
"I'm speaking to the crew of the unmarked Bell helicopter flying over the   
Sunnydale mall, can you hear me?" he spoke loud and clear, trying to sound   
as calm and self-confident as possible.  
  
Above the mall, inside the Huey, Chopper frowned deeply and looked over   
his shoulder at Sniper, who just shrugged with a straight, expressionless   
face.  
  
"Yes, we hear you, but we should advise you that this is a restricted   
frequency and you're hindering an official operation of the... DEA," he   
said, grimacing at his own obvious and shameless lie. "Who are you?"  
  
"Eeehhh!!" Xander exclaimed with an amused smile, mock-imitating the   
failing sound of a TV contest siren.  
  
"Wrong answer! But thanks for trying anyway!! Who am I? Let's see... I'm   
your worst nightmare, buddy. I'm the thing you don't want to think about,   
the creature that you fear in the innermost depths of your subconscious."  
  
He continued, "I'm the elf that Santa Claus kicked out of the North Pole,   
the evil Ewok that wanted to eat Princess Leia, the dwarf that looked   
under Snow White's skirt when she was sleeping... and man, you're on my   
shit list."  
  
On the ground level, inside the Humvee, Backlash heard the conversation   
through the walkie-talkie and looked at his partner with a puzzled frown.  
  
'What?' he mouthed silently.  
  
The Scandinavian mercenary arched his own brow and shrugged, softly   
shaking his head in blank non-comprehension.  
  
"Now, do you want to come and get me, guys?" Xander continued with the   
same playful and wicked tone in his voice. "I'm on the second floor,   
northwest wing, going towards the exit. Come and get me, if you have the   
guts."  
  
Switching off the radio, Xander closed his eyes for a moment and released   
a long breath. "Like I said," he whispered to himself with a half-smile of   
incredulity, "I must be losing my head."  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Humvee speeding towards the exit   
and, as he heard the helicopter over the building getting ready to get in   
position, he calculated the time the black off-road would need to reach   
the glass gate at the end of the hallway.  
  
"Thirty Mississippi," he started to count backwards, revving up the engine   
of his bike, "29 Mississippi, 28 Mississippi..."  
  
At his back, one of the doors leading to the inner staircase and the   
bowels of the building, burst open and two security guards came out,   
aiming at him with their Smith & Wesson revolvers.  
  
"Freeze! Get down off the bike, with your hands up and clearly visible!"   
one of the guards ordered him.  
  
His only vision of the man on the bike was his broad, leather-clad back   
and the rear side of the muscular Yamaha he was riding with its customized   
license plate slowly rocking from one of its screws. "Do it now, or we'll   
open fire!"  
  
Far from obeying his order, the black-clad biker limited his response to a   
new acceleration of his bike's engine that made the floor tremble as twin   
bursts of white-gray smoke coming out of its twin exhaust pipes.  
  
Deliberately slow, not making any brisk movement, he reached inside his   
jacket and, filling the air with the metallic sound of the blade sliding   
out of its scabbard, unsheathed a long and curved sword.  
  
Immediately, the two guards cocked their guns. "Drop that! Drop it now!"  
  
Ignoring them, Xander passed the sword to his left hand and spun the blade   
around, finally leaning its sharp point on the floor at his side.  
  
"You're making me lose my count," he said calmly and without turning his   
head to look at the guards. "Get lost."  
  
"I said, drop-"  
  
"No!" the young vampire roared. Turning his head, full game face on, he   
stabbed the two men with his blazing golden eyes, showing his fangs to   
them with a vicious snarl as a growl escaped his throat. "I said, get   
lost!"  
  
The two guards looked at each other for a short instant and, choosing the   
wisest course of action, turned around on their heels and ran away as fast   
as their legs could carry them.  
  
Shaking his head, Xander revved up the engine and let the rear tire spin   
freely, emitting a dark cloud of smoke and leaving a burn mark on the   
floor before finally freeing the brakes.  
  
He allowed the bike to quickly reach its top speed as he crouched down   
behind the handlebars, and roared along the long hallway towards the glass   
wall at the end of it.  
  
"Ten Mississippi, nine Mississippi, eight Mississippi..."  
  
At the same time, as he lifted the front wheel slightly from the ground   
the point of his curved katana touched it, producing a rain of golden   
sparks with the abrasive contact of the metal against the stone.  
  
In addition, the dark silhouette of the helicopter appeared on the upper   
edge of the open gallery, descending and taking position in front of the   
large window to aim its weapons at the interior of the building.  
  
"...seven Mississippi, six Mississippi, five Mississippi..."  
  
"What the hell does he think he's doing?" Chopper asked with a squeak as   
the figure of the biker grew bigger and bigger on the other side of the   
glass wall. "Is he suicidal or what?"  
  
"I don't know, and I don't care!" Sniper exclaimed, losing his coolness   
for a moment as he pointed at the biker with his finger. "Just shoot him   
down!"  
  
Arching his brow under the fly-like visor of his helmet, Chopper curved   
his finger around the trigger of the aircraft's handlebar, opening fire.  
  
The revolving barrels of the twin 7.62mm miniguns installed on both sides   
of the helicopter started to spin immediately, screaming with its   
characteristic buzz saw-like sound.  
  
A burst of projectiles emerged from them at a rate of 7200 rounds per   
minute, ripping the upper glass wall into a myriad of tiny fragments that   
fell down mixed with the endless cascade of golden empty shells coming   
from the guns' ejecting ports.  
  
"...four Mississippi, three Mississippi, two Mississippi..."  
  
The high-velocity 7.62mm projectiles impacted on both sides of the   
upcoming bike, tracing twin paths of bullet holes on the ground as the   
floor tiles jumped up in shattered, dusty fragments all around Xander. But   
still, he advanced towards the broken remains of the glass wall at top   
speed.  
  
"God!" Chopper exclaimed with wide-open eyes as he yanked at the height   
and direction bars of the helicopter, taking it out of the way. "That   
psycho's going to crash into us! He's a kamikaze!"  
  
"... one Mississippi, zero!!"  
  
Practically at the same time, on the lower level the black Humvee smashed   
the double doors of the entrance into an unrecognizable mass of twisted   
bars of metal and flying fragments of glass.  
  
Above them, Xander reached the edge of the window, while the helicopter's   
machine-guns turned everything around him into a smoking wreck.  
  
There was a moment of silence, of quiet. Everything seemed to be suspended   
for a brief second, as if time had stopped.  
  
Then, with a roar that came both from the 4-cylinder engine of his bike   
and from his unnatural throat, Xander emerged from the second floor,   
leaving a trail of smoke and debris behind him as his bike traced a   
perfect arc in the air.  
  
He passed beneath the evading Huey, right between its blades with his long   
sword turned into a bright flash of dark silver.  
  
As he swung it over his head with a powerful stroke, the impossibly sharp   
blade of the Akani-Kawa opened up a long gash on the metal of the   
aircraft's paunch.  
  
The hole immediately spat out a wave of electric sparks and thick smoke   
above him, as he started to trace the final descending arc of his flight   
towards the ground below.  
  
Falling in perfect synchrony with the roaring Humvee beneath him, Xander's   
rear tire landed on the roof of the black military vehicle with a dull   
shake.  
  
As the young vampire silently thanked Kyle for the hardened suspension he   
had installed in the Yamaha, he turned his arm around in a perfect circle,   
blindly slashing the surface of the Humvee's frame as he accelerated with   
his right hand over the still moving vehicle.  
  
"Holy Mother of God!" Havoc exclaimed, as the whole truck shook with the   
impact of the landing bike and he bounced on his seat moving around to aim   
at the invisible attacker. "What was that?"  
  
Then, the blade of the biker's sword appeared suddenly through the   
ceiling, cutting through the metal and plastic like a hot knife through   
butter. Both mercenaries jumped away from its path, pressing themselves   
against their respective doors.  
  
The blade disappeared as fast as it had come, and the roar of an engine   
being revved up was heard even over their own motor as a dark shape   
appeared on the upper edge of the windshield, quickly filling its whole   
area.  
  
Above them, inside the Huey, the cockpit was quickly filling with smoke as   
the practically all of the different switches and warning lights of the   
aircraft blinked red, and the indicators of height and direction spun out   
of control.  
  
"Damn!" Chopper exclaimed as he fought to regain control of the   
helicopter, yanking at the two handlebars with all his strength to stop   
the Huey from spinning around its main rotor and crashing against the   
mall's building. "That bastard's cut the main hydraulics! I'm losing   
control!"  
  
Taking his hand off of the useless height handlebar, Chopper quickly began   
to switch off some of the controls of the panels above his head,   
connecting others in a hurry.  
  
"Changing to secondary hydraulics!" he announced needlessly as, in the   
rear section, Sniper held on to his seat with all his strength, trying not   
to bounce around and lose the contents of his stomach. "If he's also   
damaged them, we're going down!"  
  
"Can't we just eject?" Sniper asked into the microphone, a deep note of   
worry in his cool voice.  
  
Chopper chuckled, on behalf of the situation. "This is a Huey, not a F-14,   
Snippy. If it goes down, we go down with it!"  
  
Shaking his head, the mercenary marksman rolled his eyes and started to   
pray.  
  
Some of the panels' warning lights changed back to green and the pilot   
released a breath he didn't know he was holding, sighing with relief as he   
recovered the control of the aircraft and made it turn around, following   
the trail of the Humvee and the biker on the ground.  
  
With his game face twisted into a grimace of pure rage, Xander sped up and   
the black Yamaha jumped off of the off-road's roof, landing on its hood   
and bouncing on it with a last squeeze of the gas control.  
  
Falling in front of the still-moving vehicle, handling the bike only with   
his right hand and swinging his sword with the left one, Xander looked   
over his shoulder through the crackled windshield of the truck.  
  
He shared a hard stare with the vehicle's driver and his passenger, before   
offering them a crooked smile full of fangs as the two vehicles speeded   
along the parking lot.  
  
"Ha!" he laughed out loud, shaking his head in true amusement. "Tom   
Cruise, eat your heart out!"  
  
"Run over that jerk," Havoc growled inside the Humvee.  
  
Backlash just nodded. "Consider it done," he said, slamming his foot down   
on the gas pedal once again.  
  
The Humvee's engine roared as it suddenly jumped ahead on the bike's   
unprotected rear and its wide front bumper smashed the taillight, license   
plate and softail fender, pushing it forward.  
  
Shaken by the hit, Xander cursed under his breath as the Yamaha wriggled   
on the road and he fought not to fall to the ground. Looking through the   
rear-view mirror, he saw the black off-road gaining speed again and   
getting dangerously close to his tail.  
  
The young vampire snorted and sped up at the same time. With a powerful   
swing of his left arm, he released his dark katana in the air, launching   
it against the windshield like a javelin.  
  
Slicing through the air as straight as an arrow, the Akani-Kawa entered   
the cracked glass of the windshield point-first, right in front of   
Backlash's face.  
  
The Australian mercenary could only lean to the right as fast as he could   
to dodge the sharp blade, as it made its way through the glass and came   
into the vehicle with a soft whisper, only stopping when its point was   
deeply embedded into the head-rest of his seat.  
  
So fast did he have to move away to avoid his face being stabbed by the   
sword, that he banged his head on the window of his door, grunting in pain   
with the blow. Havoc quickly jumped to his side and grabbed the steering   
wheel, to keep the control of the truck.  
  
"Oh, shit, what a blow," the Australian man moaned, shaking his head in   
pain. He felt the right side of his head burning, and something wet   
running down the edge of his jaw to his neck...   
  
=Waitaminute,= he thought, opening his eyes in shock, =the right side? The   
window's on my left side!=  
  
Bringing his hand to that part of his head, the mercenary tested his flesh   
with a chill of dread running along his backbone. When he noticed the   
wetness drenching the whole side of his face he knew, even before looking   
at his fingers, that they were going to be stained red with his blood.  
  
What Backlash wasn't expecting, by any means, was what he saw when he   
turned his head and looked at the thin band of metal joining the surface   
of the windshield to his seat. Nailed by it to the headrest, stabbed like   
a piece of meat, a human ear dripped slow red tears on his arms.  
  
His ear, he noticed shocked as he brought his hand again to the right side   
of his head and his fingertips traced the severed borders of cartilage,   
stinging him with a pricking pain.  
  
"That bastard!" he suddenly exploded. "Bloody bugger, damned son of a-!"  
  
"Backlash!" Havoc shouted, shaking him to gain his attention. "I can't   
keep on driving like this, brake or we'll crash!!"  
  
"That bastard's sliced off my goddamn ear!" the Australian yelled at his   
partner, pushing him away to get back the control of the steering wheel.   
"We're not gonna stop until he's dead and buried!"  
  
"And how are we going to do that, huh?" the Scandinavian man asked with a   
frown. "Are we going to spit at him and call him names, until he gives   
up?"  
  
"No," his partner growled pointing towards where they were leading, "we're   
going to burn him to ashes."  
  
Not 100 yards in front of them, the Sunnydale Mall's Texaco gas station   
sat at the end of the parking lot, the neon lights on its roof shining   
with bright and attractive colors and its filling tanks standing in row,   
ready to receive any customer.  
  
Havoc smiled evilly and got his grenade launcher ready, shoving a new   
explosive projectile into its chamber. "Have I told you lately that I love   
the way you think, partner?"  
  
Seeing where they were directing him, slowly but surely pushing him   
towards the gas station and not leaving him any space to reduce his speed   
or even brake, Xander shook his head and searched for a way out.  
  
He already knew that he wouldn't find anything else apart from lowering   
his head, and allowing his adversaries to run over him with their truck.  
  
Xander sighed with resignation and shook his head, knowing what was going   
to happen.  
  
"Losing my head?" he growled to himself, licking his pointed fangs. "I'm   
way beyond that."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
=What a boring evening,= the young man attending the gas station thought,   
stifling a yawn with his fist and looking at his wristwatch to check that   
five minutes had passed since the last time he had done the same thing.  
  
It couldn't be said that he was dying to end his shift and going back home   
for a night of nothing else to do – but at least in his apartment, he had   
a TV. And he could watch some mindless program, and be dressed only in his   
underwear, without anybody to tell him anything to the contrary.  
  
Well, not that anyone would notice if he got undressed right then, because   
in the last five hours not a single car had stopped for a refill or even   
buy a Twinkie in the store.  
  
In short, he was bored crazy.  
  
"God," he mumbled, rolling his eyes, "what I wouldn't give for a little   
action..."  
  
A growl of thunder was heard and he looked outside the window at the night   
sky frowning, when he saw it completely clear. The thunder, far from   
vanishing, grew in intensity until the entire gas station was trembling   
with its savage roar.  
  
"What the... ?" he asked out loud, opening the store's door and coming out   
of the building.  
  
Gulping down in shock, he watch in open-mouthed surprise as the two   
vehicles sped straight towards him like a couple of tattered lightning   
bolts, and with no sign or intention of stopping.  
  
The man riding the bike, whose face looked strange somehow, noticed him   
standing between the gas pumps and the store and made an unmistakable sign   
to him with his left hand as he fought not to be run over by the large   
Humvee chasing him.  
  
Arching his brow, the young employee turned around and ran away, thinking   
that sometimes God had a damn twisted sense of humor.  
  
Trapped by the black Humvee, Xander was sweating bullets not to be smashed   
against the line of parked cars, and the fact that the blonde man was   
continuously shooting at him wasn't helping, not at all.  
  
They were reaching the end of the rows formed by the parked cars and   
Xander thought that he would have a opportunity to get away, but that   
would lead him directly towards the gas station and he was fearing that   
was exactly what his opponents wanted him to do.  
  
The truth was, he was unable to find any other way out.  
  
A burst of bullets came dangerously close, and Xander did a brisk maneuver   
to avoid them. But he wasn't able to move more than a few centimeters to   
the right, until the parked cars made impossible any other action.  
  
The last projectiles hit his bike with an explosion of sparks, as his   
headlamp was shattered into pieces and the punished, overheated 4-cylinder   
engine started to make a coughing sound.  
  
The young vampire felt something wet in his tights and he looked down,   
only to see how the fuel flowing out of a couple of bullet-holes on the   
fuel-tank of the Yamaha.  
  
"Oh, no, come on, baby, don't fail me now," he whispered as he reached the   
end of the line of cars. "Come on, just a little more..."  
  
As the Humvee launched itself laterally over him with a screech of its   
tires and pushed him towards the gas station before heading to the   
opposite side, Xander swallowed a thick knot in his throat. He squeezed   
the speed handle one last time, risking all in what he knew would be his   
last chance.  
  
Inside the Humvee, Havoc smile and fired a fragmentation grenade. It flew   
in a fast arc before exploding against one of the gas pumps, ripping it   
off the ground and sending it up to the sky within a column of fire.  
  
Holding his breath, Xander clenched his teeth and yanked at the handlebars   
of his Yamaha, lifting the front wheel off the ground. He covered himself   
with the bike's frame as, in front of him, the whole gas station was blown   
up in flames with a thundering explosion.  
  
A mushroom-shaped ball of fire soared into the sky, lighting up the night   
and turning the darkness into a red and orange show of dancing, breathing   
flames.  
  
Xander released his breath in a roaring scream and the ball of fire   
engulfed him and his bike completely, making the both of them disappear in   
its burning bowels.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
"Wow! Look at that!" Backlash exclaimed, slamming on the brakes and making   
the truck stop with a screech of punished tires as the gas station   
disappeared into a ball of fire at their backs, taking the biker and his   
vehicle with it. "What a blast!"  
  
Not able to look straight at his partner, Havoc held his breath, his cold   
blue eyes fixed on the center of the fireball as it ascended to the night   
sky, turning it into a blazing piece of Hell on Earth.  
  
"Too easy," he whispered absent-mindedly, "it's been too easy..."  
  
"Easy?" the Australian man exclaimed with a high-pitched voice, pointing   
at the bleeding wound on the side of his head. "You call this eas-"  
  
His voice died in his throat when the dark bulk came out of the wall of   
dancing flames, still enveloped by them in a flickering hug.  
  
Recognizing it for what it was, the two mercenaries looked at it with   
wide-eyed and open-mouthed faces as the biker lowered his flaming front   
tire to the ground. Even across the distance separating them, he stabbed   
them with his burning and enraged golden eyes.  
  
"That guy is the Devil," Backlash whispered with astonishment, as he   
shifted the car into gear. "The Devil himself."  
  
"Let's get outta here," Havoc said weakly, unable to remove his eyes from   
the biker's figure.  
  
Leaving a cloud of smoke behind him, feeling his burnt lungs aching with   
each breath he took and with his ears deafened by the roar of the engine   
and flapping sound of his jacket at his back, Xander sped directly towards   
the Humvee, quickly reaching its rear end.  
  
With both tires in flames and the fuel-tank quickly losing fuel, he knew   
that his faithful Yamaha was giving him its last effort, and he wasn't   
going to waste its sacrifice.  
  
He was about two meters behind the Humvee, chasing it as it sped out of   
the parking lot and back onto the road. Whereupon Xander clamped down on   
the front brake with all his strength, leaving the rear one free.  
  
The powerful momentum of the bike made it prance like a metal horse, the   
whole frame of the Yamaha launched up over the front wheel as the rear one   
abandoned the asphalt and threw him over the handlebars.  
  
Far from fighting it, Xander opened his hands and legs and released the   
bike, allowing it to push him into the air and behind the Humvee as his   
own vampire powers kicked in.  
  
The black Yamaha spun madly in the air with a protest of folded metal and   
exploded with a scream that sounded surprisingly animalistic in the young   
vampire's ears. The shock-wave sent him even faster towards the black   
truck, as the burning wreckage that had been his bike kept on bouncing and   
sliding on the asphalt behind them.  
  
Opening his arms spread wide, Xander's reached out and his claws dug   
deeply into the metal of the black vehicle's frame, holding onto them. He   
stuck his head into the interior of the Humvee through the broken window   
and offered a fanged smile to its occupants.  
  
"Good evening, kind gentlemen," the young vampire said out loud in a   
singsong tone, "could you give me a lift?"  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Backlash heard the thunder of the bike's explosion and looked back through   
the rear-view mirror with the tiny hope that it would mean the end of that   
whole madness.  
  
But, much to his own dread, the only thing he found reflected on the   
polished surface of the mirror were a couple of red-gold eyes, boring into   
his neck with all the rage and the determination of a burning demon from   
Hell.  
  
"God!" he exclaimed, with his voice strangled by fear. "Havoc!"  
  
The Scandinavian man turned around, pulling the trigger of the   
submachine-gun attached under the barrel of the grenade launcher, firing a   
wave of hot lead towards the vampire on the back.  
  
But the flying projectiles went inoffensively through the remains of the   
rear window as the demonic biker seemed to have vanished into nothingness.  
  
"What the hell?" Havoc asked, looking around with a frown.  
  
Driving with his left hand and holding his bleeding wound with his right,   
Backlash imitated his actions, searching from the black-clad young man.   
"He may have fall-"  
  
He was never able to finish his sentence as a clawed fist came through the   
open gash in the ceiling with a powerful punch and grabbed him by the   
throat, choking the air out of his lungs and shaking him violently.  
  
Smashing the mercenary's head repeatedly against the steering wheel,   
Xander released his semi-unconscious form and extracted his arm from the   
interior of the truck.  
  
Then, as the Humvee moved wildly from one side of the road to the other,   
he grabbed both lips of the long wound on the metal and tore them away,   
pulling them apart until the opening was as wide as his shoulders.  
  
"Oh, come on," he growled with mocked disappointment when he noticed the   
blonde man turning his weapon to aim at him through the opening, "do you   
think that's a nice welcome?"  
  
With unnatural speed, Xander reached into the vehicle and grabbed the   
thick barrel of the grenade launcher, easily ripping it from the   
mercenary's hands with a hard yank.  
  
Carelessly tossing the weapon away over his shoulder, the young vampire   
grabbed the mercenary with his other hand by the chest of his shirt and   
lifted him violently, smashing his face against the edge of the open gash   
twice.  
  
Rendering him almost unconscious, before finally dragging him up through   
the open wound in the roof's metal.  
  
However, as the opening wasn't wide enough for Havoc's broad shoulders,   
the Scandinavian mercenary got stuck in it with his arms uselessly trapped   
against his torso. Growling and smiling sideways at him, Xander choked the   
yell of fear that came from his throat by the radical way of surrounding   
his thick neck with his clawed hand and squeezing it tightly.  
  
They were moving at high speed and, as they advanced along the access road   
out of the mall and got onto the highway passing by Sunnydale, they   
started to hit the diverse traffic coming and going out of the town.  
  
As they were lurching out of control from one lane to the other, the cars   
coming in the opposite direction flashed them with their headlights and   
honked at them furiously, as they evaded their maniacal maneuvers.  
  
=If we don't stop soon,= Xander thought, =we're going to have a major   
crash.= But first, he had something to do.  
  
"You," he growled at the man as the wind whipped wildly at both their   
heads, more shouting than talking and never releasing his grip on his   
neck, "nod if you understand me, OK?"  
  
The man nodded weakly, his eyes wide with fear and shock as they looked   
straight at the vampire. Xander said, "Who do you work for? What do you   
want from us?"  
  
"None... of... your... business... freak!" the mercenary managed to   
sputter weakly, shaking his shoulders to free them from the hug of the   
metal. "Lemme... go!"  
  
Xander arched his edged brow and smiled softly at the man. "Hmmm, so you   
have a backbone after all, huh?"  
  
Tightening his grasp on his throat, the young vampire fixed his blazing   
red-gold eyes on those of his prey, boring into them until Havoc's mind   
screamed with the same pain that would be caused by an ice-pick into his   
brain. "It doesn't matter, you'll tell me everything you know.   
Everything."  
  
Havoc gasped like a fish out of water, unable to break away from the   
intense, overwhelming look of the Master vampire. Compared to him, to his   
power and untamable will, the mercenary was nothing, just a weak whisper   
of consciousness.  
  
His ego, his persona, was but a flickering flame in the middle of the wild   
tornado that was Xander Harris.  
  
"Yes..." the blonde man whispered weakly, his eyes devoid of any will or   
desire, "...you're my Master."  
  
The vampire smiled, tilting his head to one side slightly. "Speak to me.   
Tell me everything."  
  
The man released a pained sigh, and looked back at him with his empty   
expression.   
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Shaking his head, fighting the thick mist of unconsciousness benumbing his   
brain, Backlash struggled awkwardly in his seat, trapped against the   
window by the dark sword still coming out from the windshield.  
  
He turned his head to see the lower part of his partner's body struck in   
the opening in the ceiling and had to blink twice, wondering if he was   
having a hallucination or something similar.  
  
=Then again=, Backlash thought, =with everything that's happened today,   
this is almost normal. Almost.=  
  
A blinding light flooded the interior of the Humvee and Backlash regained   
control of the steering wheel, turning it quickly to take the vehicle out   
of the wrong lane and dodge the car coming in the opposite direction,   
which honked at them as it passed by their side.  
  
"Well, yeah," the Australian grunted as he struggled to control the   
handling of the Humvee, "screw you too, mate!"  
  
Above the black off-road, Xander was momentarily destabilized by the   
sudden change of direction, and had to take a hold on the roof's edge not   
to fall off of it.  
  
But, just when he was about to resume his fruitless interrogation of the   
blonde man, the Humvee's driver slammed on the brakes to the very limit of   
the pedal. The large off-road stopped without warning, its tires   
screeching against the asphalt.  
  
Losing his equilibrium, the young vampire was flipped over the windshield   
by his own momentum and he landed painfully on the car's hood, rolled on   
it with the momentum and fell down over the front fenders, getting out of   
Backlash's sight.  
  
With the hypnotic link between them broken, Havoc shook wildly, trying to   
free himself.  
  
"Now!" he shouted, trying to look over his shoulder at the front side of   
the vehicle. "Just run him over!"  
  
"As if I needed you to tell me that," the Australian growled, accelerating   
again and launching the Humvee forward. The black off-road's punished fat   
tires screamed against the asphalt and Backlash smiled with satisfaction,   
still holding the blood-covered side of his face as his eyes shone with   
malice.  
  
"I bet he's wishing to be anywhere else right now but under the wheels of   
my truck, huh?" he asked out loud as, beside him, Havoc managed to slip   
back into the car, scratching his shoulders against the rough edges of the   
gash in the process.  
  
Looking back over the seat, the Scandinavian man shook his head, his eyes   
still wide open in shock and fear. The biker's body was nowhere to be seen   
behind the Humvee's smoking tail.  
  
"Where's his body?" he asked.  
  
"What?"  
  
"His body," Havoc said tiredly, "if we've just run over him, where the   
hell's his body?"  
  
As if on cue, a hand appeared over the front fender of the black vehicle.   
A clawed hand, whose razor-sharp nails dug into the metal of the hood,   
holding onto it as a black leather-clad arm followed it.  
  
And, on its trail, a demonic face full of edges, ridges and planes and   
with twin blazing red-gold eyes fixed on them through the shattered   
remains of the windshield.  
  
The vampire growled at them, the menacing sound loud enough to be heard   
over the engine, and his mouth parted into a vicious snarl that showed   
them his long, pointed and dangerous ivory-white fangs.  
  
"Shit," Backlash whispered as the demon climbed up on the hood. "We're   
screwed."  
  
Swallowing hard, Havoc nodded in agreement. "My thoughts exactly."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Tired, hurt, fed up with the whole situation, worried about his friends   
and above all, incredibly pissed with those two guys, Xander grabbed the   
handle of his katana, still sticking out of the windshield. He yanked at   
it, extracting the long curved blade from the interior of the truck.  
  
Standing on the hood as the Humvee sped at almost 80 mph and dodged the   
upcoming traffic, the young vampire roared and lifted the dark gray sword   
over his head. He then traced out an arcing slash that sliced off the edge   
of the roof, right at the upper edge of the windshield's glass.  
  
Pushed by the force of the wind and the blow of Xander's katana, the   
off-road's metallic roof folded up, suddenly turning the military truck   
into a convertible and exposing Backlash's and Havoc's heads to the cold   
air of the night and the wild wind that ruffled their hair.  
  
The two men looked up at the vampire standing on the hood of their car,   
with what could only be described as wide-eyed and shocked expressions. He   
spun the sword in his hand so he would be holding it blade-down and lifted   
it again, ready to plunge it down on either of them.  
  
"Now, dumb and dumber," Xander shouted with thundering voice, "who wants   
to die, and who wants to live?"  
  
The two mercenaries looked at each other briefly and then Backlash slammed   
on the brakes again. This time, however, Xander was ready for the maneuver   
and he simply leaned down, flexing his knees and digging his boots on the   
bumped metal of the hood.  
  
His mouth parted into a devilish grin. "I'll take that as your answer," he   
growled, raising the sword.  
  
Then, before he could deliver a mortal strike, the batting noise of a   
helicopter's rotors was heard and the black Huey appeared over the lines   
of trees bordering the road, leaving a trail of clear smoke coming out of   
the open wound on its paunch.  
  
Flying laterally as only an helicopter can do so the gunner at its side   
had a comfortable firing position, the Huey stationed over the road and   
Xander had to make an effort not to curse out loud.  
  
In the helicopter's rear cabin, leaning out through the opened   
sliding-door and with the butt of his Dragunov firmly leaned against his   
shoulder-joint, Sniper allowed his thin lips to form an evil, vicious   
grin.  
  
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..." he quoted as he settled the crosshairs   
on Xander's figure and his finger curved on the trigger, "...fade to   
black."  
  
Flexing his knees, Xander started to move away, but he knew it was   
painfully too late.  
  
The first shot thundered over the noise of the rotors and the growl of the   
Humvee's engine and, as Xander started to jump off of the hood, a 7.62mm   
bullet sliced through the air and hit him in the shoulder with enough   
force to complete his movement, propelling him backwards.  
  
Xander closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, as the right side of his   
torso was paralyzed by a searing pain. Behind his eyelids, the darkness   
was replaced by a million stars.  
  
His feet hadn't left the surface of the hood when the second bullet   
impacted into his body, this time five inches beneath and to the left of   
the first wound. He felt the full-metal-jacketed projectile dig into his   
flesh, piercing his lungs.  
  
They filled up with blood, that immediately flowed up his windpipe and   
into his mouth as his trachea was flooded with the precious and vital   
fluid.  
  
The taste was coppery and delicious, as always.  
  
The third, the fourth and the fifth shots went through his chest, coming   
out his back as his body shook like a puppet in a windstorm. Blood and   
saliva spurting out his lips, he didn't even feel it when the sixth bullet   
shattered his breastbone and, deviated by the impact, pierced his heart.  
  
If he'd been human, or even a normal Immortal, he would have been dead   
even before his body touched the ground.  
  
Fortunately for him, or unfortunately depending on your point of view, he   
wasn't.  
  
He was also a vampire, and that meant he didn't need his heart to beat to   
stay 'alive'.  
  
Xander slipped off the hood and fell to the hard asphalt, losing the sword   
and the little air remaining in his lungs with the impact.  
  
His world was one of searing pain, and he had to make a superhuman effort   
to ignore it and keep on moving, rolling away from the front bumper of the   
off-road as, at the very edge of his consciousness, he heard its engine   
roaring back to life.  
  
With a yell of victory, Backlash accelerated again, launching the massive   
form of the Humvee over him and Xander released a tired grunt as he lay   
flat on the road, but not quick enough to dodge the front bumper.  
  
It hit Xander in the chest, smashing his ribcage and, instinctively, the   
young vampire hung onto it, digging his sharp claws on the metal as a   
spurt of thick dark blood erupted from his nostrils and mouth, splattering   
the front fender of the Humvee.  
  
Stubborn as he was, Xander refused to release his grasp on the car as it   
dragged him along, his legs and lower abdomen submerged beneath the large   
hood and the heels of his black mountain boots bouncing and scratching the   
rough concrete.  
  
Clenching his fingers around the front bumper, Xander felt the metal   
folding and tearing under his supernatural strength, the ragged but sharp   
edges cutting his flesh and making his hands bleed.  
  
Ignoring the pain that engulfed his whole being, from his bleeding fingers   
to his bruised and swollen chest, from his scratched back and legs to his   
throbbing head, the young vampire held on till the last moment with   
stubborn pride.  
  
And, in the end, it was the Humvee who yielded and surrendered to him. Of   
course, it was a Pyrrhic victory as it meant his own defeat.  
  
The joints of the bumper snapped off with a sound of ripped metal and   
Xander, still uselessly holding onto it, fell between the wheels of the   
off-road.  
  
The good floor-clearance of the vehicle didn't prevent it from hitting the   
young vampire at least ten times with the same number of metallic edges,   
and making him roll madly on the rough concrete as the Humvee ran over   
him.  
  
=Well, at least the tires didn't crush any of my limbs,= he thought   
semi-amusedly as the black vehicle moved away from him. His body, covered   
only with torn clothes and a thousand bleeding scratches, finally came to   
rest in the center of the lonely road.  
  
At least, now it was over.  
  
Raising his head from the asphalt, shaking it instinctively to recover a   
little clarity in his mind, Xander's golden eyes looked straight at the   
smoking rear of the Humvee as it got further away.  
  
About fifty yards away from him, its rear tires were suddenly wrapped up   
into a gray cloud of smoke as the brakes screeched and the truck's driver   
made it spin around 180 degrees with a screech of rubber against concrete.  
  
"Oh, shit," Xander groaned.  
  
Obviously, it wasn't exactly over.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Havoc exclaimed with   
astonishment, as his partner made the car spin around and speeded towards   
the vampire lying on the road.  
  
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Backlash asked back, with a frown and   
an expression of ire. "I'm going to finish that bastard off! He cut off my   
ear, I'll stomp him like a bloody bug!"  
  
Havoc looked at his partner in silence for a second and shook his head in   
disgust, before retrieving the walkie-talkie from the dashboard. "Daddy   
Goose? This is Receptor Team, we're gonna stomp a bug and then we're going   
back home. Thanks for the help, by the way. Over."  
  
"Don't mention it, pal," Chopper's voice came through the speaker, "it's   
been our pleasure. We're having some mechanical problems, so we're already   
going away. Good luck – over and out."  
  
Switching off the radio, Havoc looked at his partner sideways. "You heard   
him, crush him and let's go home."  
  
The Australian nodded. "Heard and done."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Xander tried to stand up, but his left leg failed him miserably, the knee   
bending at an impossible angle under his body and making him fall back to   
the ground. Stifling a curse, the young vampire raised his eyes to the   
upcoming off-road and saw that, much to his own worry, it was practically   
on top of him.  
  
Grunting and clenching his fangs, Xander leaned all his weight on his good   
leg and got ready for one last effort. Flying required a lot of energy, an   
level he wasn't sure he had right then, but if he pushed with enough force   
at the right moment, he would prop himself up and over the Humvee, dodging   
it.  
  
Landing afterwards was a completely different matter, but that was a   
bridge he would cross when he came to it.  
  
He spat away a mix of blood and saliva and fixed his red-gold eyes on the   
hood of the Humvee, counting backwards from ten to zero as he got ready to   
jump.  
  
Surprisingly, though, he didn't even reach four.   
  
The tattered white Honda appeared at the military vehicle's right, coming   
from the nearby access road without any kind of warning and flying over   
the asphalt with a roar of its over-worked engine.  
  
The sedan skidded on the road and crashed laterally with the Humvee with a   
moan of folding metal and shattering glass, pushing it away from Xander   
before heading to the opposite side of the road.  
  
With his mouth opening in shock, Xander could only turn his head as the   
two cars passed at top speed on both sides of him, the gusts of wind   
produced by them ruffling his longish hair and ruined clothes.  
  
Growling with puzzlement, Xander tilted his head to one side. "What   
the...?"  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
"...hell?!?" Backlash exclaimed, as he looked at the smaller car at their   
side through the window.  
  
The white Honda launched itself at them once again and its tarnished,   
door-less side slammed their own with an explosion of golden sparks,   
making the two mercenaries bounce in its interior in shock.  
  
Finally, the Australian man had a glimpse of the person driving the   
offending car and couldn't but to arch his brow in wonder and surprise   
before frowning again, this time with a deep expression of rage.  
  
"I should have known!!" he exclaimed with rage. "God brings them up, and   
they got together!"  
  
Stifling a curse when the tattered Honda Accord slammed them again,   
Backlash decided to return the favor and opened up to the right, before   
moving back to the left and striking back with all the weight of the   
Humvee's massive body and power of its engine.  
  
Much lighter and less powerful than the military vehicle, the Honda was   
thrown effortlessly to the curb, spinning around as if it was trapped   
inside a tornado.  
  
It covered the surface of the road with the shattered fragments of its   
windows, before ending up stuck in the ditch at the side of the road, with   
its rear wheels sunk into the mud and the front ones spinning uselessly a   
couple of inches over the asphalt.  
  
"What now?" Backlash asked, as he looked at the crashed car over his   
shoulder. "Do we turn around and finish the job?"  
  
Havoc looked at him as if that was the craziest and stupidest suggestion   
he had ever heard, which in his opinion, was exactly what it was.  
  
"Are you joking? Forget about them, we have the damn cross, so just point   
this thing towards the mansion and let's get the hell outta here. I've had   
enough excitement for one day!" he barked.  
  
Backlash nodded in agreement. And although part of him, the one that was   
still screaming in pain and holding his sliced ear, told him to do the   
exact opposite thing, the Australian mercenary sped up, leaving behind the   
remains of the battle at their back.  
  
The thick, dark smoke, coming from the exhaust pipe of their tarnished   
car, covered their escape.  
  
"You think we can find a good explanation for all this?" he asked, once   
they had lost sight of the white car.  
  
Havoc sighed painfully, and shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm still   
trying to understand it."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Limping severely as he walked to the crashed Honda, Xander retrieved his   
sword from the middle of the road and used it as a cane, leaning his   
weight on it for support.  
  
Although he knew that his human mask hid his real state, he couldn't help   
but grimace slightly every time that he moved his left leg.  
  
He could feel the tissue already healing, the broken bones reassembling   
inside his swollen knee and the severed tendons and ligaments rejoining   
around them.  
  
But the truth was, the healing process of his wounds was as painful as the   
incidents that had produced them.  
  
He reached the Honda at the same time that the driver's door opened with a   
protesting crack of bent metal, and the top of a brunette head emerged   
from the dark interior of the car.  
  
In spite of his sharp vampire eyes, Xander couldn't get a glimpse of the   
driver, because of the cracked windshield and the darkness surrounding   
them. The only light was provided by the full moon hanging in a starless   
sky above them, and it wasn't until the driver came out of the car that he   
could see her face clearly.  
  
Cordelia.  
  
Bruised and dirty face, wide and bewildered eyes, tousled hair and torn   
clothes, she looked at him with a curious expression that he couldn't   
decipher. She seemed furious, eager, scared and excited at the same time.  
  
As if all those feelings were boiling inside her and trying to come out,   
but no one of them could gain the upper hand over the rest.  
  
All he knew was that her presence was a calming force, a balm that washed   
over him, making him feel more relaxed and in control immediately.  
  
And that in spite of her actual looks, she was so beautiful that it   
rendered him breathless.  
  
Arching her brow as she rounded the car and came closer to him, Cordelia   
stopped at an arm's length from him, and looked down at her bare feet sunk   
into the mud of the curb.  
  
Wiggling her toes, she took them out of the mud with a grimace of   
discomfort. "Great, just what I needed to complete a perfect day. A mud   
bath for my feet."  
  
In spite of the situation, Xander couldn't help but chuckle with   
amusement, but the action only served to make him grimace in pain when a   
wave of pain passed through his healing ribcage. "Ouch! Don't make me   
laugh, Cor. It hurts too much."  
  
At hearing this, Cordelia took a good long look at his appearance, his   
ragged and bloodied clothes and the unmistakable bullet holes in the chest   
of his black T-shirt and leather jacket.  
  
He brought her hand up and very gently, reverently, she traced the   
contours of the wound in the middle of his chest with her fingertips.  
  
When she raised her face and Xander was able to see her eyes, he noticed   
her worry but something else too. Something he wasn't able to identify.  
  
Maybe it was fear, and maybe it was something completely different. The   
young vampire wasn't sure it had to do anything with him, either.  
  
"Are you alright?" she asked weakly, not really meeting his eyes with   
hers.  
  
He nodded slowly, half-closing his eyes before bringing his free hand to   
her face and cupping her cheek. "Perfectly fine," he whispered, "I'm   
indestructible, remember?"  
  
Snorting, she shook her head with a reproachful stare. Xander just gave   
her a goofy smile, as his thumb traced slow and soft round motions on her   
cheek.  
  
The effect was more than comforting, it was mesmerizing and Cordelia   
leaned on his hand, closing her hazel eyes for a brief moment.  
  
Suddenly, she felt more tired than ever before in her whole life.  
  
"And you?" Xander inquired softly as he examined more closely the bruises   
and cut on her face, specially the ones on her throat. Purple finger marks   
staining her flawless tan skin, someone had tried to strangle her. "Are   
you alright?"  
  
Without thinking, she shook her head but then, remembering something, she   
opened her eyes and looked straight at him. A myriad of feelings passed   
behind her eyes at that very moment, so fast and so raw that Xander wasn't   
able to classify them all.  
  
But, for a second, he thought that Cordy, his brave and strong Cordelia,   
was going to crumble in his arms.  
  
Then, Cordelia seemed to reach the same conclusion and she straightened   
her back, putting on a mask of hardness on her face. The change was so   
sudden and unexpected that Xander had to blink and look twice, to be sure   
that the woman in front of him was the same one as before.  
  
Even at the end, he wasn't very sure she was. This Cordelia had a layer of   
steel in her eyes, that didn't allow him to read what was really happening   
inside her.  
  
She was closed off to him, and that frightened him more than what he had   
ever thought possible.  
  
"I'm alright," she said tensely, although both of them knew it was   
perfectly obvious that it was a blatant lie. She shook her head, and   
stabbed him with a hard glare. "Well, actually I'm not. What I am is mad   
at you, Mr. Pee-Wee the vampire."  
  
Xander arched his brow and shook his head briefly, confused. He had to   
make an effort not to grimace in pain. He was hungry, his knee was killing   
him and he had a major case of a near death-induced headache.  
  
"What?" he asked, a little more harshly than what he intended. "You are   
mad at me?"  
  
She nodded, with an expression that said that it was perfectly obvious.   
"Yeah, you left me behind as if I was some kind of... annoying baggage or   
something!"  
  
Opening and closing his mouth, Xander pointed around them with a violent   
wave of his open arms. "Hellooo?!? Have you noticed what's going on here?   
Did you really expect me to carry you on the back seat while I chased   
those guys?"  
  
Cordelia looked at him as if that was a stupid question, and nodded in   
affirmation.  
  
The young vampire could do nothing more than to shake his head, and   
chuckle. "You, Cordy, you're really something."  
  
God, she was crazy and he adored her.  
  
Cordelia lifted a perfect eyebrow as, by silent accord, they started to   
walk away from the crash site and the useless Honda. "Can you even find   
something funny in all this?"  
  
Xander shrugged and allowed a soft smile to cross his lips, but said   
nothing. For a few moments they just walked side by side in silence, along   
the road back to Sunnydale. Xander was limping and leaning on his sword,   
as Cordelia made an effort not to crawl, she was so tired.  
  
A couple of minutes later, still without exchanging a word and without   
looking at each other, they reached out with their hands and entwined   
their fingers tightly, walking hand in hand.  
  
Looking sideways at her, Xander smiled crookedly and lifted a dark   
eyebrow. "Does this mean you're not angry at me for leaving you behind   
now?"  
  
Cordelia snorted without turning her head to look at him. "You can't be so   
lucky, dweeb-boy."  
  
Finally yielding and sharing his smile, she shook her head as Xander swung   
their linked hands. "Don't think too much of this, Xander. I'm doing this   
just because I don't want you to leave me behind if you decide to resume   
the chase."  
  
He sighed tiredly, as a crunching sound came from his knee when it snapped   
into place. "Don't worry, I don't think I can gather the energy or the   
will to do it right now."  
  
"So, what now?" she asked with a small frown. "They still have the cross,   
right?"  
  
Nodding softly, Xander mirrored her expression. "Yeah, I wonder what they   
need it for. And what Faith has to do with it."  
  
At the mention of his sire's name, Cordelia looked straight at him for the   
first time, fighting not to look too worried or, even when she couldn't   
believe it, jealous. "Maybe it's just a coincidence."  
  
"In my experience there's no such thing as 'just a coincidence', Cordy."  
  
The young vampire sighed again and raised his eyes to the full moon above   
for a short second, before returning his gaze to the road in front of   
them. "Anyway, we'll have to leave it for tomorrow. Right now I just want   
to go the hospital, and see how our friends are doing."  
  
Cordelia nodded softly, and the two kept on walking in silence. Some   
minutes later, it was Xander who broke it with a puzzled frown.  
  
"How did you find me?" he asked out of nowhere.  
  
She shrugged, with an enigmatic smile. "Well, I just followed the trail of   
destruction," she said with a wink. "You do know that the Sunnydale mall   
won't ever be the same again, don't you?"  
  
Xander returned the smile, and shook his head with amusement. "Well,   
Cordy," he sighed, surrounding her shoulders with his arm and flashing an   
enormous grin, "it's all just part of the job description."  
  
Cordelia looked at him seriously for a couple of seconds and then,   
chuckling, she leaned on him as they walked towards Sunnydale once again,   
in a deep but comfortable silence.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
  
To be continued... 


	10. Part 10 of 10

DR2 - The Cross of Changes by Nick Midian, Book III, part 10 of 10  
Written by Nick Midian   
  
Content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Duncan  
  
English grammar, spelling, slang, Highlander continuity and general   
corrections by Theo  
  
French slang, content beta-reading and storyline suggestions by Mash  
  
French slang by Alan  
  
  
EMAIL: jcaballero@euskalnet.net  
  
SPOILERS: For Buffy the Vampire Slayer: 3rd season, BUT no Xander/Willow   
kissing and no Lover's Walk (welcome to the wonderful State of Denial,   
Land of 'Shippiness). Hmmm, I've messed with the third season's timeline   
to accommodate it to my necessities. Let's just say that 'Band Candy'   
happened a lot later than it did, around the first days of February, OK?  
  
For Highlander: None really, the characters of the TV series and films are   
only tangentially mentioned. You just need to know the basics of   
Highlander-style immortality, BUT I've always thought that whole   
'Immortals have no parents and are found in a little basket' is a... um,   
the Spanish word for it is 'chorrada', so let's just ignore it, OK?  
  
KEYWORDS: Romance, Angst, Action-adventure, Violence, Alternate Universe,   
Crossover.  
  
RATING: PG-13 with some mild R parts for violence and sexual innuendo.  
  
DISCLAIMER: This story has been written with no intention of profit,   
merely for the pleasure of writing and sharing it.  
  
The concept and characters of BTVS (Buffy, Angel, Cordelia, Xander,   
Willow, Oz, Giles, Joyce, Spike, Drusilla, Snyder, Faith, Harmony, Lyle   
Gorch, Quentin Travers and the rest) are intellectual and legal property   
of Joss Whedon, Warner Brothers, Mutant Enemy, etc. Also, the concept of   
Highlander and the characters mentioned here (Duncan MacLeod, Amanda   
Darieux, Richie Ryan, Joe Dawson and the Society of Watchers) are the   
property of Panzer-Davis and Rysher Entertainment.  
  
Michael Deveraux, Rachel Curran, Crystal Parker, Kyle White Owl, Robert   
Coltrane, Elvis the Dog, Broderick Egoyan, Damon Frost, Mr. Smith, the   
World Committee for Civil Defense and the rest are my own creation.  
  
All the songs and lyrics here are used without permission, they are   
copyright of their respective rights owners.  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Please, understand that English is not my native language,   
so any grammatical or spelling errors are my fault, not of any one of my   
wonderful beta-readers. If you're thinking of sending any flames, please   
be kind with me. I'm a grown man, but I still can cry like a child,   
believe me.  
  
SUMMARY: Broderick Egoyan has carefully chosen the right moment to strike,   
when friends are against friends and all trust seems about to vanish   
between Slayerettes and Archangels. It's right when you think things   
couldn't get worse that they get worse.  
  
And now, on with the show. Fasten your seat belts ladies and gentlemen,   
because it's going to be a long, hard and jumpy ride...   
  
~~~~~~  
  
The cast for Book III  
  
Nicholas Brendon as Xander Harris  
Charisma Carpenter as Cordelia Chase  
  
Sarah Michelle Gellar as Buffy Summers  
David Boreanaz as Angel  
Alyson Hannigan as Willow Rosenberg  
Seth Green as Daniel 'Oz' Osborne  
Anthony Stewart Head as Rupert Giles  
Kristine Sutherland as Joyce Summers  
  
Matthew Perry as Michael Deveraux  
Paula Trickey as Rachel Curran  
James Marsters as Spike  
Nikki Cox as Crystal Parker  
David James Elliott as Kyle White Owl  
Elvis the Dog as Himself  
  
Eliza Dushku as Faith Adams  
Donald Sutherland as The Old Chess Player, Broderick Egoyan  
Sebastian Spence as Damon Frost  
Avery Brooks as Mr. Smith  
  
Amy Chance as Aphrodesia  
Persia White as Aura  
  
Alan Rickman as Conrad Swann  
Wesley Snipes as Talon Pantera  
Dennis Rodman as Rush Pantera  
Tom Berenger as Colonel Cabbot Ashe  
Michael Ironside as The Sergeant  
Benjamin Bratt as Santero  
Trevor Goddar as Backlash  
Dolph Lundgren as Havoc  
Rob Rowland as Chopper  
Jake Busey as Sniper  
Shaquille O'Neal as Beast  
Matthew Ferguson as Chip  
  
Bill Paxton as Major Stephen Marsden, USAF  
Tom Sizemore as Master Sergeant Ricky Perkins, USAF  
John Leguizamo as Airman First Class Charlie Martinelli, USAF  
Mario Lopez as Airman First Class Alonso 'Bear' Vasquez, USAF  
Patrick Labyorteaux as Sergeant Edwin Walters, USAF  
  
Richard Dean Anderson as Col. Jack O'Neill, USAF  
Michael Shanks as Dr. Daniel Jackson  
Amanda Tapping as Maj. Samantha Carter, USAF  
Christopher Judge as Teal'c  
Don S. Davis as Gen. George Hammond, USAF  
Teryl Rothery as Dr. Janet Fraiser  
Tom McBeath as Col. Harry Mayborne, USAF  
Peter Deluise as Airman Shepard, USAF  
  
with  
  
Kevin Spacey as Robert Coltrane  
Nicholas Lea as Jonah Whalls  
  
and  
  
Catherine Zeta-Jones as the Lady in Red  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Incise: Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado, 0905 hours Zulu.  
  
  
  
"How is it that you always come up with the worst case scenario?"  
  
"I practice."  
  
Dr. Daniel Jackson & Col. Jonathan 'Jack' O'Neill  
  
  
  
Cheyenne Mountain had for years not only been the most secure site in the   
whole U.S. nation, but also one of its best-kept secrets.  
  
There, the men and women of the NORAD (the North American Aerospace   
Defense Command) oversaw 24 hours a day the safety and integrity of the   
air space of North America and its allies overseas.  
  
Since 1966, when all the operations were transferred from the old Ent Air   
Force Base at Colorado, Cheyenne Mountain sustained a constant vigil over   
the North American continent, guarding it against attacks from land, sea,   
air, and space.  
  
And still in those early years of the 21st Century, the mountain continued   
evolving in an ever-changing environment effectively and efficiently,   
supporting not only critical national defense missions for the U.S. and   
Canada, but also space support and theater defense missions worldwide.  
  
By definition, as the more than 1100 military and civilian personnel   
working in the complex liked to think, the security of all humankind was   
in their hands.  
  
Excavated from the rock of the Rocky Mountains near Colorado Springs, only   
accessible by helicopter and by a unique road that led directly to the   
armored and constantly guarded pneumatic main gate on the end of the   
slope, the mountain was a fortress of rocks, steel and ferroconcrete.  
  
Something that would survive the impact of low-range thermonuclear weapon,   
and a heavy attack with conventional armament. All that, plus the armed   
security squads of the US Air Force guarding it, made the complex a   
formidable and impregnable construction.  
  
There was also fact that the Cheyenne Mountain Operations Center comprised   
the largest and most complex command and control network in the world,   
with a system that used satellites, microwave radio routes, and fiber   
optic links to transmit and receive vital communications from the   
worldwide space surveillance and warning network.  
  
It also had redundant and survivable communications hot lines connected to   
the Pentagon, White House, U.S. Strategic Command, and Canadian Forces   
Headquarters in Ottawa, other aerospace defense system command posts, and   
major military centers around the world.  
  
Thus all this turned the complex into the most adequate site, to house   
what probably was the most secret military project of the world.  
  
The SGC. Maybe humanity's last line of defense against an enemy that was   
more powerful, more ancient and more advanced than what any Earth   
civilization had ever been. Maybe its last hope.  
  
The Stargate Command.  
  
Few in the mountain really knew what happened in the last two levels of   
the complex, the deepest and most secure ones. Few knew what were the   
mission parameters of the military and civilian personnel working there.  
  
Nobody, not in the Air Defense Operations, Missile Warning or Space   
Control Centers could even suggest what really happened there.  
  
It was too secret. Too dangerous for them to know.  
  
If the mountain's Command Center, the now worldwide famous Crystal Palace,   
was the heart of the mountain, on a reduced scale the Gate Room and the   
adjacent Control Command were the SGC's one.  
  
There, standing thanks to a series of hydraulic branches on top of a   
metallic access ramp, the real soul of the project reigned like an ancient   
religious symbol. Which, from a certain point of view, was exactly what it   
was.  
  
Ancient beyond belief, with the dark and slightly rough appearance of the   
alien mineral from which it was constructed and the undecipherable, mystic   
symbols engraved all over its perfectly round surface, the Stargate was a   
mystery by itself.  
  
Nobody really knew who had made it; which race, civilization or species in   
the universe. What had been its real purpose or intention? Had it been a   
peaceful one, directed to shorten the distance between different worlds,   
to make them closer for their people and cultures?  
  
Or had it been a darker, more dangerous one? Had it been made for conquest   
or for friendship?  
  
Now, centuries, maybe millennia after its creation, the Stargate's real   
definition depended very much on the person that looked at it.  
  
For some it meant the only chance of survival and victory; for others, a   
threat that had to be neutralized at any cost. Some saw it as a unique way   
of learning, of discovering; others saw it as a means of conquest. What it   
inspired, depended only on each person's experience, intelligence and,   
basically, soul.  
  
Looking at it through the armored windows of the Command Room, Sergeant   
Tom Halloran, USAF, thought that what the large metallic circle inspired   
him in that very moment... was total and absolute boredom.  
  
Stifling a yawn with his fist, the young non-com stretched his stiff limbs   
and back and took a short look at his wristwatch, checking that only five   
minutes had actually passed since the last time he had done the same   
thing.  
  
Shaking his head and sighing with resignation, Halloran did a fast   
run-over of the diverse screens and monitors around him and checked that   
nothing was out of the ordinary.  
  
Then, sighing once again and cursing whoever was responsible for assigning   
him to night watch, the young man stood up from his comfortable wheeled   
chair. And, after giving a soft nod as the only salute to the two airmen   
under his command that night, walked to the nearby Mr. Coffee.  
  
The sergeant served himself a good dose of the black and bitter brew,   
wishing it would be enough to keep him wide-awake for the remaining hour   
of his shift.  
  
The last thing he wanted was to get caught asleep in front of the controls   
by a superior officer, now that the list of promotions was due to come out   
any day.  
  
"Everything alright, sergeant?" said a voice behind him with a deep Texan   
accent, and Halloran had to make an effort not to exclaim 'speak of the   
devil' out loud.  
  
Turning around, and wondering how it had been possible for the man now in   
front of him to sneak into the room without being heard, Sergeant Halloran   
adopted the straightest posture he could and nodded his head.  
  
"Yes, General, everything is normal," he said after clearing his throat,   
not getting any response at all as the man in front of him wasn't even   
looking at him and, obviously not really giving him this attention.  
  
=Doesn't this man ever sleep?= Halloran thought. =And what the hell is he   
even doing here anyway?=  
  
Abstaining very much from saying this aloud, Halloran decided on a more   
ordinary approach and lifted his cup of coffee. "I was just having a cup   
to stay awake, er... do you want one, sir?"  
  
Once again, he got no response from his superior officer. "Sir?" Halloran   
insisted with a somewhat stronger voice, finally gaining the General's   
attention. "Are you alright, sir?"  
  
Truthfully, General George Hammond's appearance wasn't that impressive. So   
short that he had joined the Air Force passing the height requirements by   
the barest minimum, with a waist more rounded than what was recommendable   
for a man of his age and practically as bald as a cue ball, with only the   
last remains of what once had been a glorious red mane on the back and   
sides of his head, he didn't offer the image of authority that one would   
expect from a two-star General of the US Air Force. He looked more like a   
granddad or a bald Santa Claus.  
  
No, there was something different what made him one of the most respected,   
and in some circles even feared, superior officers of the USAF - it was   
the severe air of authority, of control that seemed to emanate from his   
short figure.  
  
Tom Halloran, as did the rest of the military and civilian personnel   
serving under General Hammond, could feel it. He knew that it didn't   
matter how wrong could things go, as long as that man was in command, they   
would always have a chance of victory.  
  
"Sergeant," the General said with his usual short and no-nonsense tone,   
completely ignoring his question and pointing with his extended finger to   
one of the monitors, "could you tell me what this means?"  
  
Halloran arched his brow in confusion. The general knew which was the   
function and purpose of each one of the screens, monitors and different   
devices in the room, most of which were constantly scrolling down with   
information gathered by a thousand different sources. Why was he asking,   
then?  
  
The sergeant sent a helpless look towards his two subordinates, but they   
chose to step aside the incoming storm and leave him on his own.   
=Cowards.=  
  
"Uh, sir, that's the status report of the situation of each one of the   
different SG-teams. But you already know that, sir."  
  
The balding short man nodded slowly and, coming closer to the screen,   
leaned his extended index finger on the name of one of the teams, the only   
one that was marked in red. "I know that, sergeant," he practically   
growled, pinning him with his blazing blue eyes, "what I don't know is why   
the one for SG-4 is glowing red, could you explain me that?"  
  
=Uh, oh,= Halloran thought, =trap-question incoming.=  
  
General Hammond wasn't famous because of his sense of humor or his   
tolerance towards his subordinates, with very well known and few   
exceptions. And, last time he had checked, Halloran hadn't a colonel's oak   
leafs on the neck of his shirt or a tag-name saying 'O'Neill' on his   
chest.  
  
"Sir, that means that SG-4 is on duty," he said simply, choosing a   
straight and safe answer.  
  
"SG-4... is... on duty..." Hammond said, spacing the words and looking at   
him with amazement as he tasted them.  
  
Halloran gulped down, knowing that was the moment of the explosion.   
Surprisingly, it never came.  
  
"Sergeant, SG-4 had its return scheduled for 2300 hours, yesterday. That   
was..." Hammond lifted his whole ten fingers and showed them to his   
subordinate, "...ten hours ago! Why haven't I been informed of this   
delay?"  
  
Halloran exhaled a long and pained breath, gulping down a thick knot and   
feeling a cold sweat drenching his body under his light blue uniform. "Uh,   
sir, the mission parameters stated that..."  
  
"To the hell with the mission parameters!" the superior officer finally   
exploded, making Halloran and the rest of the present ones flinch under   
the thunder of his voice. "I expect to be informed of the developments of   
every mission on a 24/7 basis. Am I understood, sergeant?!?"  
  
Before Halloran could answer him, and as he waved goodbye the   
possibilities of getting a promotion any time soon, the whole control room   
was suddenly submerged into a flashing red ocean of light and the wailing   
sound of a siren deafened all those present, making them jump in surprise.  
  
In the adjacent room, the Stargate came to life as the nine locks, called   
'chevrons', around its circular surface lightened with a reddish glow.  
  
The interior of the metallic circumference that was the main part of the   
Stargate blinked for the infinitesimal part of a second, as if a thin veil   
was covering it. And then the space inside it combed inwards first and   
then exploded in a water-like cascade that erupted several meters into the   
room, before retreating back into the circular gate. Then, all that   
remained was a vertical pool that looked like shining water but wasn't.  
  
The galactic vortex was activated.  
  
A metallic, computerized voice imposed over the noise of the alarm,   
speaking with cold and soulless calm.  
  
  
  
ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL. STARGATE ACTIVATED. INBOUND TRAVELER. ATTENTION   
ALL PERSONNEL...  
  
  
  
"Alien activation of the Stargate!" one of the airmen standing guard on   
the controls exclaimed, his eyes quickly running over the data scrolling   
down the screens and monitors. Turning his head to look at Gen. Hammond,   
he licked his lips nervously. "We're not receiving any GDO signal, sir."  
  
Hammond nodded sharply, his lower jaw locked into an unreadable   
expression. GDO stood for 'Garage Door Opener', and meant that the person   
(or persons, or even beings) activating the Stargate on the other side of   
the portal were not sending a recognizable signal of alert telling they   
were members of a SG team and, therefore, had to be treated as hostile.  
  
"Close the iris immediately, sergeant, and get a security squad in the   
room," the General ordered without looking at his subordinate. As Halloran   
did as he was told, frantically pushing the keys of his computer, Hammond   
turned his head towards one of the airmen. "Which team is standing guard   
tonight, Airman Jenkins?"  
  
The young man took a short look at his monitor's screen, and released a   
breath of relief. When he turned back to his commanding officer, Jenkins   
couldn't hide a half-smile. "SG-1, sir."  
  
In the Stargate room, the iris closed over the activated portal,   
effectively and soundlessly blocking it. It was made of an alloy of   
titanium and naquada, the alien quartzite metal the Stargate was made of,   
and was supposedly indestructible.  
  
But Hammond had seen its integrity compromised too many times to trust   
only in it for the safety of the installation, and the men working in it.   
So, he mirrored his subordinate's expression for a brief second at hearing   
the on duty team's name.  
  
At least, he would have his best team by his side in case things went   
really wrong.  
  
"Call Colonel O'Neill," he commanded. "Have him and his team come to the   
Command Room ASAP."  
  
Airman Jenkins nodded and grabbed his phone's speaker as Hammond,   
centering his blue gaze on the closed surface of the iris, half-closed his   
eyes and watched how the security squad flooded into the adjacent room and   
took positions around the closed gate, aiming at it with their automatic   
weapons.  
  
The Air Force general crossed his arms over his chest and sighed tiredly,   
wondering what was going on and how would they manage to get out of it   
this time with their skins intact.  
  
That is, if they managed it.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
It was barely five minutes later that an incomplete representation of the   
SG-1 team came into the Command Room, still putting on their uniforms and   
generally looking like they had been woken up in the middle of a good   
sleep.  
  
"General Hammond," the man leading the three-person group acknowledged the   
superior officer with a soft nod of his ruffled head. "What bring us here   
on this lovely night, sir? I suppose I'm hoping for too much if I say a   
surprise party."  
  
He was a man in his mid-forties, with deep gray and short, military-length   
hair, and a severe expression that was betrayed only by the gleam of dry   
humor shining on his deep brown eyes. He was wearing a green-brown   
camouflage uniform with combat boots and, under the still opened jacket, a   
tight black T-shirt over which his metallic dog tags stood out   
dramatically.  
  
Hammond ignored the man's sleepy attempt at humor and shook his head   
towards the Stargate, on the other side of the room's armored windows.   
Seeing the closed iris and the security squad with their weapons drawn and   
ready, Colonel Jack O'Neill arched his brow and sighed with resignation.  
  
"I said it was too much to hope for," he concluded dryly.  
  
The remaining two members of his group, a man and a woman, gave him   
similar short looks of resignation before turning to the older man. The   
woman, an attractive blonde on her mid-thirties and the same military air   
around her as the two men she was addressing, was the first one to speak   
up.  
  
"What's going on, sir?" Major Samantha Carter inquired with her usual tone   
of gentle worry. "A Goa'uld attack?"  
  
"I don't know, Major," the General told her, his seemingly eternal   
expression of authority and hardness never leaving his face. "Truth be   
told, we still don't know very much. The Stargate was activated from the   
other side some minutes ago, without any GDO signal sent in our direction.   
We've closed the iris as a measure of precaution, but the truth is that   
nothing has tried to cross the vortex yet."  
  
"And if they had tried by now they would be a paste of organic tissue   
smashed against the interior side of the iris," the remaining member of   
the team observed, his spectacled eyes already running over the different   
data offered by the screens around them.  
  
Dr. Daniel Jackson was the only non-military member of the team, and one   
of the very few civilians that knew and worked on the Stargate project.   
Still in his very early thirties, his boyish features took at least five   
years off his face. And his brown hair, a little too long for military   
standards, his expressive green eyes behind his small rounded spectacles   
and the eternal lovely pout on his lips, turned him into a more than fine   
male specimen.  
  
Of course, of those present, only Major Carter was conscious of that fact   
and then, only in a 'cute-little-brother' sort of way.  
  
The anthropologist and Egyptologist, not conscious of this himself,   
centered his attention on the glowing screens, adjusting his small rounded   
spectacles over his nose. "Ah, I may be wrong in this," he said pointing   
at the screen, "but doesn't this mean that SG-4 is out on a mission?"  
  
At hearing this, O'Neill looked at the General with a frown. "There wasn't   
any mission scheduled till tomorrow," he recollected, half-closing his   
eyes. "There's something we should know, sir?"  
  
The older man shifted uncomfortably under his younger subordinate's gaze,   
feeling as bad as usual when he had to navigate between two oceans, his   
loyalty towards the people under his command, most of which he considered   
friends, and the responsibilities of his charge. "SG-4 was sent on a   
non-scheduled mission requested by Intelligence to P3X254, they should   
have returned ten hours ago but we've still not gotten any transmission   
from them. Frankly, I'm starting to be worried about them."  
  
"Ten hours?!" O'Neill asked in amazement. "That's almost half a day! With   
all due respect, sir, why haven't you sent a retrieval team?"  
  
"And P3X254?" Major Carter asked, before the General could answer. "Didn't   
the MALP exploration show that it was a deserted and desolated planet?"  
  
"Not to mention that it has a toxic atmosphere," Daniel added.  
  
"That's an important clarification, thank you Daniel," O'Neill told him   
with a deep tone of sarcasm that passed right over the Egyptologist's   
head, who just smiled and nodded with a pleased expression.  
  
"Anyway, sir," the Colonel said, turning back to the older man, "that   
place is like New Jersey during a heat-wave, why would Intelligence send a   
team there?"  
  
"They wanted something from that planet," Carter guessed, getting ahead of   
her superior's answer. "And they didn't want us to interfere. Let me   
guess... some kind of weapon, maybe?"  
  
Crossing his arms behind his back, Hammond nodded sharply. "You're close   
enough, Major. It seems that they believe there was something valuable on   
P3X254, and they used their privileged command to sent SG-4 on a Tango   
mission."  
  
"Tango mission?" a clueless Daniel asked out loud. For a person that was   
able to translate ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics as if he had been born   
speaking them, he was surprisingly obtuse for any kind of military slang.   
"What is that?"  
  
"A black operation," Carter told him, with a worried face. Obviously it   
wasn't good news. "Top secret and deniable."  
  
"Yeah," O'Neill agreed with a grimace of distaste, "no info, no   
reinforcements, no rescue party and, in case you fail, no name for your   
grave. The good old military way."  
  
Daniel arched his brow, and pushed his spectacles up to the bridge of his   
nose. "Nice to know that you can count on the people you work for in case   
of necessity."  
  
"Let me remind you that this is not a Boy-Scouts camp, gentlemen," Hammond   
said sternly, "this is the U.S. Air Force, and all of you knew what that   
meant when you signed in. Sometimes, you have to make sacrifices."  
  
Daniel was about to remind him that actually he wasn't a member of the Air   
Force, but O'Neill silenced him with a sideways stare and the Egyptologist   
decided to remain silent.  
  
"Then what?" the colonel asked. "If that activation is SG-4 trying to come   
back home, aren't we going to open the door for them?"  
  
"You know the rules, Colonel," Hammond faced him with a hard stare,   
"without GDO signal the iris will stay closed. Period."  
  
"But what if they've had some complication with theirs?" Daniel protested,   
puzzled as always with the rigidity of the military way of thinking. "If   
they're indeed in a Tango mission they know that there won't be any rescue   
team, what if they..."  
  
"I've told you before but I'll say it again, Dr. Jackson," Hammond cut him   
off, "this is the U.S. Air Force, we do not work here with 'what ifs', we   
work with reality."  
  
Daniel rolled his eyes, passing a hand through his brown hair, but the   
General ignored his expression. "Anyway, I'll follow your example. What if   
it's a Goa'uld attack? Or maybe other kind of alien threat we still don't   
know about? We can't run the risk of leaving the door open for them."  
  
"But-"  
  
Before Daniel could complete his objection to the General's logic, which   
was in any case a lost battle and both of them knew it, Carter stopped   
him, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him softly. "Let it be, Daniel..."   
she whispered absent-mindedly. "That doesn't matter now."  
  
"How can you say that?" he insisted again, turning to her. "They're our-"  
  
This time, however, it was himself the one to stop his tirade. Carter   
wasn't looking at him and, truth be told, neither was O'Neill, Hammond or   
any of those present. All of them but him were looking at the adjacent   
room, through the armored windows separating them.  
  
"What...?"  
  
Following the direction of their glances with his eyes, Daniel settled   
them on the perfect circle of the Stargate and saw immediately what had   
rendered them speechless.  
  
The iris was opening.  
  
"Sergeant!" Hammond exploded suddenly, making all of them flinch. "What   
the hell are you doing?"  
  
"It's not me!" Halloran exclaimed with a high-pitched voice, his fingers   
running over the keyboard. "I don't know who's doing it, sir, but some   
external force is opening the iris!"  
  
"You mean external as in from outside of the mountain?" O'Neill inquired   
with a frown.  
  
"No, sir," Halloran said with darkened expression, "external as in from   
the other side of the Stargate."  
  
As one, all of their eyes turned back to the galactic portal and the   
reflecting pool, already visible through the slowly opening iris.  
  
Releasing a sigh, O'Neill muted a curse under his breath. "I was afraid   
you'd say that."  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Aside from the portal itself, the only exit of the Stargate room was an   
armored pneumatic double door leading to the bowels of that level. That   
door usually remained open, and guarded by a small group of special   
operations commandos; but in case an emergency was declared, as was the   
case right then, it closed and locked automatically, sealing the room.  
  
The only way to open it and enter into the Stargate room then was   
introducing an eight-cipher alphanumeric code on the security panel beside   
the door, a code that was changed every day with a complicated algorithm   
that rendered it almost undecipherable.  
  
So, when the members of the security squad felt the armored door opening   
at their backs, they were more than surprised and, instinctively, turned   
their heads as one to look over their shoulders at the incoming and   
unexpected guest.  
  
When they saw his impressive figure coming out of the darkness of the web   
of corridors, some of them felt reassured by his presence; whereas others,   
seeing only the hard and emotionless expression on his face and the golden   
symbol on his forehead, felt that things were getting even worse.  
  
His skin was as dark as ebony and his chest and muscled arms so broad that   
the black T-shirt he was wearing seemed to be about to rip apart, so   
stretched it was. The expression on his face was more stoic than cold.  
  
His eyes, hard and dark like twin pieces of coal, were fixed on the   
opening iris as if the reflecting pool behind it was the most important   
thing on this planet he had come to call 'home'.  
  
The only trace of color in his shaven head was the egg-shaped golden   
symbol on his forehead, a snake trapped inside an oval identifying him as   
Apophis' Jaffa.  
  
Teal'c, the Jaffa, walked calmly between the members of the security   
squad, not a single feature of his face moving to show the inner turmoil   
he was experiencing.  
  
At the very end of the ramp leading to the Stargate, he straightened up to   
his full height, lifted the long spear he carried in his hands and aimed   
it at the opening of the portal. He pushed the hidden activation button of   
the launcher and the case of beetle-shaped point of the spear opened, a   
golden electric glow running all over it.  
  
If this was indeed the beginning of a Goa'uld invasion, he would be the   
first one to receive it, and he would show the false gods how expensive a   
free Jaffa's life was.  
  
The iris opened completely and, for a second as everybody inside the   
Stargate room and the adjacent Command center held their breaths, nothing   
happened.  
  
Then, without any further warning a slight wave ran over the whole surface   
of the reflecting pool and a figure came through the Stargate. First an   
arm, clad in black, followed by a shoulder, a torso and a head and finally   
the rest of a humanoid body that, without uttering a word, stood up at the   
top of the structure holding up the metallic circle of the portal.  
  
An humanoid body, because with the heavy and large black robe it was   
wearing and the way its shape outlined against the reflecting surface of   
the vortex, it was impossible to be assured that it was a human being.  
  
Actually, the figure's only visible part were its hands, coming out the   
heavy sleeves of the robe. The fingers were too long and thin to be human,   
pale to the point of being white and with its joints swollen like wooden   
knots. The nails were long and yellowed like old vellum, and they were   
broken and splintered but their rough edges seemed sharp enough to cut   
glass.  
  
Whatever it was, it wasn't human - but, at least, it wasn't a Goa'uld   
either.  
  
The Stargate was finally deactivated, the reflecting pool vanishing in the   
air with a hiss of lost energy as, all along the room, the heavy silence   
was broken by the noise coming from the automatic weapons being cocked and   
their safeties being taken off.  
  
Raising his energy launcher until it was firmly leaned under his arm,   
Teal'c spoke to the figure with a firm and loud voice. "You are invading a   
military installation. I command you to identify yourself immediately!"  
  
The figure remained speechless but its left arm began to move slowly, so   
slowly in fact that no one considered the action a threat, and sunk his   
hand into his black robes. Never increasing the speed of its movements,   
the figure extracted something from the dark interior of its clothing,   
keeping it hidden inside its closed fist.  
  
"Stay alert!" General Hammond warned through the speakers of the   
communications system. "Open fire at the first suspicion of an attack!"  
  
"What is that?" Major Carter asked, looking at the figure with half-closed   
eyes.  
  
Neither Daniel nor the General was able to answer her, but O'Neill shook   
his head with a shocked grimace on his face. "Whoever he is looks   
surprisingly like Vincent Price!"  
  
Carter looked at him sideways, but abstained from making any commentary at   
his remark.  
  
In the Stargate room, the figure raised its arm until its hand was in   
front of its hooded face and opened its long fingers, showing what it kept   
in them.  
  
The glass sphere floated up from its hand, stopping a couple of inches   
from its open palm and began to glow, the golden shine coming from its   
interior twisting and swirling in an endless maelstrom. Then, the cloaked   
figure started speaking, its voice male but with a resonant and vibrating   
quality that made it completely inhuman, resounding on the concrete walls   
of the room.  
  
His voice, like an unsynchronized organ, spoke in an unknown language that   
would be difficult to be pronounced by any human throat and that even a   
respected linguist like Daniel Jackson had never heard before.  
  
A grimace of pain crossed the Jaffa's cold features and Teal'c doubled   
over with a groan, leaning his long spear on the floor not to fall down.   
The Goa'uld larvae lurking inside his belly twisted and rolled around,   
scared as he had never felt it before.  
  
As the rest of those present began to be mesmerized by the tone and the   
voice of the cloaked stranger, inside the darkness of his hood twin red   
suns started to glow with an evil shine. Then he brought his left hand up,   
grabbing the fabric of the hood and pulled it off his head.  
  
O'Neill's voice was the only sound heard inside the Command Room as all   
those present looked at the figure's face with wide open eyes. "Oh, my   
God..."  
  
The rotten face of a corpse looked straight at them through the armored   
windows, a wide grin full of pointed fangs reaching from ear to ear and   
twin reddish glows shining where his non-existent eyes once resided.  
  
His head was missing a good chunk of its upper right skull, displaying the   
interior with the sticky remains of its brain, pulsating with a rhythmic   
beat as if it was a living heart. Seeing this, Sergeant Halloran could do   
nothing more than to cover his mouth with his hand and break his eyes away   
from the figure, fighting the surge of nausea that rocked his stomach.  
  
Its voice increased in volume until its speech turned into a screaming   
gale, the corpse lifted the glowing sphere over its head, and the shining,   
spinning, shape-shifting light inside the orb began to increase in its   
intensity until it began to blind them all.  
  
"Fire!" General Hammond shouted through the intercom, feeling unnaturally   
more afraid than he had ever felt before. "Open fire, kill that thing!"  
  
Feeling nothing more than relief at their superior's command, the members   
of the security squad pulled the triggers of their guns.  
  
The corpse's yelling speech was cut off by a sudden thunderstorm of   
gunshots, as the stench and the smoke of the burnt cordite filled the air.   
The flashes erupting from the muzzles of the M4 carbines and the MP-5   
submachine guns, and the falling of the empty shells coming out the   
chambers.  
  
The cloaked corpse shook like a puppet in the middle of a storm under the   
endless wave of impacts hitting it. The black robe was torn away by the   
projectiles, strips of dark fabric floating like feathers as coagulated   
blood and chunks of flesh splattered the walls and the floor around the   
body.  
  
Still, as the gunfire finally subdued and the weapons remained silent, the   
cloaked corpse remained standing up on his feet, stubbornly refusing to   
fall. The face turned slowly from one side to the other, looking at the   
soldiers with its glowing red orbs and the too-wide grin stretching out   
its lips with a malignity that was palpable.  
  
He, whoever he was, raised the glowing sphere and started to chant again,   
even though a large part of his ribcage and lungs were now exposed to the   
charged air of the room.  
  
With an unreadable mask of determination hiding his bewildered thoughts,   
Teal'c took a step forward towards the zombie-like creature and fired his   
energy launcher. The alien weapon recoiled back in his sure grasp as a   
bolt of pure golden energy came out of the pole at the speed of light and   
hit the creature in the middle of its chest with a explosion of fire,   
smoke and flying organic remains.  
  
Launched backwards by the force of the bolt's impact, the creature left a   
trail of smoke coming from his burnt chest as it flew through the Stargate   
before finally crashing against the wall behind it with a sickening sound   
of splintered bones.  
  
The glowing orb, now out of his hand, fell freely to the floor and bounced   
inoffensively on the metallic ramp, rolling down it until it made contact   
with the point of Teal'c's combat boot and remained quiet.  
  
After giving a short look at the orb and noticing the glow vanishing in   
its interior, the Jaffa quickly walked up the ramp, all the time covering   
the zombie's slumped figure with his spear.  
  
The creature was quiet, immobile, all life or energy apparently having   
abandoned its body. Holding his breath, and never moving a single muscle   
of his face, Teal'c advanced towards it with short and slow steps followed   
by the small group of guards, the pole of his spear never wavering from   
the zombie's head.  
  
He was barely a meter away from the creature when its head jerked up   
without any warning, making the few members of the security squad around   
him flinch in surprise and tense their fingers over the triggers of their   
guns, ready to open fire.  
  
Fixing the red shine of his empty eye-sockets on Teal'c's eyes, the   
creature's lips stretched out in a fanged smile. "Jaffa," it intoned with   
that inhuman and vibrating voice, "ne jakkar erremus, te herrus."  
  
For the first time in the years they had known him, those who saw Teal'c's   
face in that moment, noticed something close to real emotions crossing his   
usually controlled features. First, it was fear; then, a hatred and a   
loathing as no one of them had witnessed before.  
  
Without uttering a word, doing nothing more than stretch out his thick   
lips in a grimace of hatred, the Jaffa fired his weapon, sending a bolt of   
energy point-blank into the creature's head. Blasting it into a thousand   
fragments of bone and a cloud of gore, which splattered the wall behind   
it.  
  
The headless body fell to one side, drawing a reddish arch on the wall and   
remained motionless; not even a death rattle shaking it, as Teal'c lowered   
his staff weapon and leaned it on the floor, supporting his massive figure   
on it.  
  
He felt breathless, and that was something he wasn't accustomed to.  
  
"Clear the way!" General Hammond's voice came from behind the group of   
guards crowding around the corpse as he, and the rest of the SG-1 team   
behind him, broke through them. "Come on people, that's an order!"  
  
The foursome finally made their way to the Jaffa and the slumped, bloodied   
and headless body at his side. And, when they had a real good view of it,   
not one of them was able to hold back an expression of disgust and   
repugnance.  
  
"I think the question has been already asked," O'Neill said, cleaning his   
lips with the back of his hand to erase the taste of nausea that assaulted   
his mouth, "but what the hell is that?"  
  
"I do not know, O'Neill," Teal'c said, breaking his dark eyes apart from   
the corpse to look at the Colonel. "In all my years serving Apophis, I   
have never before seen anything like this."  
  
"You mean nothing like somebody not dying after receiving more than one   
hundred gunshots, or nothing like this..." O'Neill struggled to find a   
suitable word to describe the headless creature at his feet, "thing?"  
  
The Jaffa looked at him in silence for a brief moment, before answering.   
"Both of them."  
  
Sighing, the Colonel turned around and looked over the crowd of security   
guards with half-closed eyes. He finally spotted what he was looking for,   
the sphere the creature had been holding, lying now forgotten by everybody   
at the end of the metallic ramp.  
  
By everybody except the guard standing beside it, who was now kneeling   
down to retrieve it.  
  
"Hey!" O'Neill exclaimed, struggling to make his way through the crowd of   
soldiers around him. "Don't touch that!"  
  
Making deaf ears at him, the soldier grabbed the sphere with his gloved   
hand and stood up.  
  
=There's something strange about him,= O'Neill thought. Maybe the   
blankness of his expression or the way his eyes seemed to be lost in the   
interior or the orb, or maybe the stiffness of his back when he stood up,   
he wasn't sure, but his sixth sense told him there was something wrong   
about him.  
  
When he finally was close enough to him, O'Neill read the nametag on his   
chest. =Shepard.=  
  
"Airman Shepard! Didn't you hear me?" he called his attention. "I told you   
not to touch that thing!"  
  
The young man finally broke his eyes away from the reflecting surface of   
the sphere, now completely opaque as if its interior was full of nothing   
more than darkness, and looked back at his superior.  
  
"Sir?" he asked, blinking repeatedly. "I didn't... I mean I..." he shook   
his head in confusion and offered the orb to O'Neill. "I'm sorry, sir, I   
didn't hear you."  
  
Grimly looking at the offered orb, O'Neill gave a forced smile to the   
young man and lifted his hands. "Leave it on the floor, Airman. Just leave   
it and don't touch it again, we still don't know what that thing can do."  
  
Shrugging, Shepard did as told and left it on the floor. "Looks pretty   
inoffensive to me, sir."  
  
"Yeah, well," O'Neill gave him a hard stare, "let's hope it stays like   
that, OK?"  
  
The Colonel turned around and, as he indicated a couple of guards more to   
help Shepard guarding the orb, walked back to the rest of his team, who   
was gathered around the headless corpse laying on the floor.  
  
"Any idea where does this thing came from?" he heard General Hammond   
asking.  
  
"I can tell you it's not from Kansas," O'Neill offered, with a slight rise   
of his brow.  
  
Teal'c gave him his usual look of perplexity. "Kansas?"  
  
O'Neill nodded seriously. "That's it, Toto."  
  
"I doubt it's of Goa'uld origin, sir. This doesn't look like their style,"   
Carter said, as she opened the creature's bloodied robes to have a better   
look at his body. "We'll have to do an autopsy, but I don't think we..."  
  
Her voice faded away suddenly, and O'Neill looked at her with a frown.   
  
"Carter?" he inquired gently as he laid a hand on her shoulder, noticing   
the sudden stiffness of her back. "What's wrong, Sam?"  
  
She flinched under the unexpected contact of his hand, but couldn't make   
herself turn to look at him. Instead it was Daniel, the other one knelt by   
the creature's side, who moved himself away so they could have a better   
view of the headless zombie.  
  
"We know where this thing came from," he announced with quivering voice,   
taking off his glasses to wipe the layer of cold sweat from his forehead.   
His pale expression was a ghastly one. "P3X254."  
  
"Oh, holy God," Hammond muttered under his breath.  
  
Under the torn and blood-drenched robe, the creature was wearing an   
equally shredded shirt with the usual brown-ochre pattern of the U.S.   
Armed Forces for desert camouflage. Some of the darker spots, they   
noticed, were in fact dried blood.  
  
And the name-strip sewed at the height of the creature's left breast read   
only 'MARSDEN'.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
"You can't actually believe that thing was Steve Marsden!" O'Neill   
exclaimed, nervously walking around the large table that occupied the   
center of the Briefing Room. "I mean, I knew Marsden and yes, he was a   
jerk, but that... that thing was totally hellish!"  
  
Sitting at the head of the table as usual, Hammond gave him a patient   
glance before turning his head to Teal'c who, with his back straight as a   
board, was sitting beside Daniel at one of the sides of the table.  
  
"Teal'c," the General asked the Jaffa, crossing his hands over the table,   
"the creature told you something before dying-"  
  
"He means before you blew his head off," Daniel clarified unnecessarily,   
at which Teal'c only nodded in affirmation.  
  
Ignoring the interruption, something he had grown accustomed to within the   
past few years, Hammond finished his question. "Anyway, I would like to   
know what he told you."  
  
"He spoke in Goa'uld, General," the Jaffa said sternly, after a moment of   
silence. "He told me he would see me in Hell. Me... and all my loved   
ones."  
  
"He spoke in Goa'uld?" Daniel asked with incredulity.  
  
Teal'c looked at him as if what he had just said was pretty obvious. "Yes,   
Daniel Jackson, he used my native tongue."  
  
"But you affirmed he wasn't a Goa'uld," the Egyptologist insisted with a   
puzzled stare.  
  
"Effectively, I..." the Jaffa remained suddenly silent and his hard,   
indecipherable stare was lost in the void. "...I felt that creature inside   
my mind, reading it. I think he... it had just learned the tongue from   
me."  
  
Daniel looked at Teal'c with wide-open eyes, before turning to settle them   
on O'Neill. The colonel, whose brow was arched to the very limit of its   
possibilities, just shrugged and released a groan. "Don't look at me like   
that, Daniel, I have even less idea of what he's talking about than you."  
  
The double-door of the room opened and Major Carter entered, passing a   
tired hand over her short blonde mane. Following her, the shorter form of   
another woman was visible.  
  
She had short brown hair and an easy, smiling, if not tired, expression on   
her face. Under a white medical lab coat, she wore the light blue uniform   
of the U.S. Air Force.  
  
Dr. Janet Fraiser gave a soft nod as a salute to the gathered men and took   
a seat beside General Hammond, who greeted her with a similar gesture.   
"What do we have, doctor?"  
  
"Well, sir, we've just finished a preliminary autopsy of the body. It   
presented many malformations and certain, ah... excrescencies all along   
its backbone and bone joints. And, although we have disposed of the head,   
the DNA analysis offers no doubt about it. I'm sorry to say that the body   
belonged to Major Marsden."  
  
"Fuck," O'Neill cursed succinctly.  
  
"Watch your language, Colonel," Hammond warned his subordinate without   
looking at him.  
  
"Yes, sir," he grunted, letting himself fall heavily on a chair. "It's   
just that I don't like seeing my friends turned into nasty things, sir."   
Without uttering a word, Teal'c gave a look to him with an eyebrow neatly   
raised and O'Neill gave him a doubtful smile. "Present company excluded,   
of course."  
  
"There's more, sir," Dr. Fraiser told the General, "all the tests we've   
done shows that the death of the body took place at least ten hours ago."  
  
"What?" the commanding officer exclaimed. "What do you mean?"  
  
"That it was already dead even before it crossed the Stargate, sir." The   
military doctor released a sigh, and shook her head with an expression of   
confusion. "Now, don't ask me to explain how that was possible - because I   
can't."  
  
"At least that would explain why he wasn't killed by the more than one   
hundred bullets that hit him," O'Neill said with admiration, "he was   
already dead. Amazing. In a gross way, of course."  
  
Hammond shook his bald head, and closed his eyes for a second. "Anything   
else, Dr. Fraiser?"  
  
The military doctor broke her eyes away from Hammond's face, unable to   
hold his glare as she played nervously. "Truthfully, sir, yes."  
  
"Oh!" O'Neill exclaimed. "Do you have anything that can top this?"  
  
Fraiser gave him a blank look. "The analysis of the contents of Major   
Marsden's stomach, indicates that he had ingested human flesh and blood   
recently."  
  
The Colonel blinked, and closed his eyes. "That serves me right for   
asking."  
  
"Major Carter?" Hammond asked the blonde woman then. "Do you have anything   
to add?"  
  
Carter then produced a small metallic briefcase, and placed it on the   
table - opening it so everybody could see what was kept in its interior.   
Lying on a cut-off bed of foam rubber, the glass sphere shone under the   
illumination of the fluorescent lights.  
  
"Looks like a paperweight," O'Neill observed, making an unimpressed face.  
  
"I've examined this orb with all the instruments I have at my disposal,"   
Carter said with a sigh, ignoring Jack's remark. "Spectrographs, X-rays...   
everything. I've exposed it to all kinds of radiation: infrared,   
ultraviolet, electromagnetic impulses..."  
  
"And?" Hammond arched his reddish brow. "What is it?"  
  
Carter sighed and gave her superior a shy look. "A ball of glass."  
  
After a short but tense silence, in which no one seemed to find the least   
trace of levity in Carter's short report, the General sighed and crossed   
his hands over the table. "Is that all, Major?"  
  
"Actually, sir, yes," she confirmed. "I've tried to reproduce the glowing   
effect we saw happening by the Stargate, but it's been impossible. The orb   
has remained inert."  
  
"I may have had more luck in that aspect," Daniel said, gaining   
everybody's attention. "But first, I would like to show you one thing. We   
taped this in the Stargate room." The Egyptologist took out a pocket-size   
recorder from the interior of his jacket and fumbled with the controls for   
a brief moment, before managing to activate it.  
  
As Daniel left the recorder on the center of the table, the eyes of the   
whole group turned to it and the silent room was filled with the   
creature's voice as its chant rose and fell, raising goose bumps on their   
skins. Still, now that they thought about it, Major Stephen Marsden's   
voice was faintly recognizable in that senseless tirade.  
  
"It's blood-chilling," Carter whispered, when the tape finally reached its   
end and Daniel disconnected the recorder. "What is it saying?"  
  
Daniel sighed and shook his head. "Running the risk of following this   
morning's humor, I have no idea. It's not Goa'uld, we know that much, and   
it is not any language that I know either. And what's stranger, I can't   
find any resemblance with any language ever spoken. From, ah, Babylonian   
to Greek, or Persian or..."  
  
"We get the point, Daniel," O'Neill cut him off before the Egyptologist   
could start an endless rambling. "Why don't you tell us what you have   
discovered about the orb?"  
  
"The orb?" Daniel asked with puzzled expression, adjusting his rounded   
spectacles on his nose. "Uh, oh yeah!"  
  
He turned around and leaned down beside the table, opening his old and   
ragged backpack and taking an ancient-looking book from its interior.   
"When I saw it glowing near the Stargate it rang a bell inside my head,   
but I couldn't remember what it was about until I tried to discover what   
language the, er... creature was speaking in."  
  
"Please, Dr. Jackson," Hammond cut him off, "get to the heart of the   
matter."  
  
Flipping through the yellowed pages of the book, Daniel nodded eagerly.   
"Yes, yes, of course. The case is that when I finished my doctorate, I was   
invited by Oxford University to give a series of lectures for a course on   
ancient civilizations they were offering."  
  
O'Neill gave him an exasperated look, and the Egyptologist rushed his   
explanation. "There, I met this man, ah, he was also giving some lectures   
on ancient folklore. And, in one of them, he talked about this..." he   
said, finally finding the page he was looking for and turning the book so   
the rest could see the black and white engraving drawn on it.  
  
In it, what appeared to be a group of gypsies were assembled around a   
campfire, some of them sitting and others kneeling. All they had in common   
were expressions of physical suffering, as if they were making an inhuman   
effort.  
  
Between them, a glowing orb, very similar to the one that occupied the   
center of the table right then, floated several inches over the crackling   
flames of the campfire.  
  
And, above it, a twisted and semi-blurred humanoid figure, barely more   
than a naked torso with a bent-down head and twisted muscular arms. Its   
hands were clawed, and there were long fangs exposed from under its open   
lips.  
  
"They called it an Orb of Thesulah," Daniel said with a low and reverent   
voice, while the rest examined the picture closely. "It was supposed to,   
ah, attract and retain a... misplaced spirit and store it, till it could   
be returned to its earthly shell."  
  
Leaning back on his chair, O'Neill grabbed the small recorder from the   
table and started playing with it as he frowned deeply. "So, this Orb   
of..."  
  
"Thesulah."  
  
"Whatever," Jack grunted, his eyes still fixed on the recorder, "is   
actually what? Magic? Pfft, the only magic balls I know are black, have an   
eight drawn on them and if you make a question and shake them, they give   
you a vague answer." Fumbling with the controls, the Colonel pushed the   
'play' button and Marsden's voice came again from the tiny speaker. "Oh,   
damn it."  
  
'...and gave her the cup filled with the wine of the fury of his wrath.'  
  
"What?" Daniel exclaimed, jumping on him and retrieving the recorder from   
his hands. "What have you done?"  
  
"I don't know!" O'Neill exclaimed back, with a shrug and an innocent look.   
"I just... touched it!"  
  
The Egyptologist stopped the reproduction and examined the controls with a   
frown on his handsome face. "You were just playing it backwards," he   
whispered with amazement and then slapped his forehead. "I just can't   
believe I didn't think of that! It's in English, but it's spoken   
backwards!"  
  
"You mean like in 'The Exorcist'?" Carter asked with a puzzled frown.  
  
"The Exorcist?" Teal'c inquired, with his usual look of perplexity.  
  
O'Neill nodded. "Yes, it was... well, it doesn't matter. Just play it,   
Daniel. Let's find what Stevie was telling us."  
  
With sharp nod, the Egyptologist rewound the tape, or fast-forwarded it to   
the end, depending on the point of view and played it again. This time,   
when it played, Marsden's voice was clearly understandable, but its tone   
was even more hair-raising and chilling. It was like a fork scratching the   
surface of a china dish.  
  
'Behold, I come like a thief! Blessed is he who stays awake and keeps his   
clothes with him, so that he may not go naked and be shamefully exposed.  
  
Then they gathered the kings together to the place that in Hebrew is   
called Armageddon.  
  
The seventh angel poured out his bowl into the air, and out of the temple   
came a loud voice from the throne, saying, 'It is done!'  
  
Then there came flashes of lightning, rumblings, peals of thunder and a   
severe earthquake. No earthquake like it has ever occurred since man has   
been on earth, so tremendous was the quake.  
  
The great city split into three parts, and the cities of the nations   
collapsed. God remembered Babylon the Great, and gave her the cup filled   
with the wine of the fury of his wrath...'  
  
Marsden's voice, or the one of the creature he had turned into, faded away   
and Daniel stopped the recording. For a long minute, no one dared to speak   
in the room until, finally, Carter spoke up.  
  
"I've always been more a scientist than a religious woman," she whispered,   
not daring to raise her voice a fraction more than was necessary to make   
herself be heard, "but isn't that a Biblical quote?"  
  
"Yes, Major, it is," Hammond confirmed, shaking his head. "From the Book   
of Revelations, chapter 16, verses 15 to 19. Was Major Marsden a religious   
man, Colonel?"  
  
O'Neill shook his head in denial. "Not that I know, sir. His only   
religions were the Air Force, the NFL and Baywatch, not necessary in that   
order."  
  
Hammond entangled his fingers and leaned his chin in his hands, frowning   
and meditating for a brief moment. "What do you think that should be our   
next step, Colonel?"  
  
Licking his dry lips, O'Neill released a long breath as he scratched his   
forehead pensively. "Truthfully, sir, I don't know what to tell you. My   
first impulse is to send a rescue team to P3X254, to see if there are any   
more survivors from SG-4. But I'd be lying to you if I said that, in light   
of what happened to Major Marsden, I'm dying to be a part of that party."  
  
"Understood, Colonel," the General nodded. "Anyway, I would want to   
prepare a contingency plan, in case we decide..."  
  
"I'm afraid that won't be necessary," a voice said from the room's door   
and, as one, all those present turned to look at its origin.  
  
Standing under the open frame of the door, a man in his early fifties,   
dressed in an immaculate blue uniform with its cap tucked under his right   
arm was looking at them with a snide half-grin crossing his lips.  
  
"Mayborne! What a non-pleasure to see you again!" O'Neill greeted the   
fellow colonel with a deep expression of loathing. "What brings you here   
all the way from Nevada? Nothing good, I guess."  
  
Colonel Mayborne returned his expression of distaste, any resemblance of   
humor disappearing from his face. "It's good to see you too, Jack."  
  
The tension between the two men was palpable in the air, along with the   
hostility that all the present ones felt towards the man in the blue   
uniform.  
  
=It's an understandable reaction,= Hammond thought, considering the number   
of times in which this man had been directly responsible for making the   
team trip in their job and had put their lives in danger.  
  
But the truth was that, from the smug smirk of superiority of his mouth to   
his unfriendly and arrogant personality, there was very little to like in   
Colonel Mayborne.  
  
It was different with O'Neill, Hammond also knew that. The rest hated   
Mayborne because of the things he had directly done to them, the   
betrayals, the lies and the deceit.  
  
O'Neill and Mayborne, besides that, hated each other because they were   
opposite poles of the same thing, like positive and negative and both of   
them knew it. They wore the same uniform and had sworn loyalty to the same   
flag, but they served interests that couldn't be further apart from each   
other.  
  
Jack O'Neill was a soldier that used words like honor, loyalty and   
courage; Harry Mayborne was an agent of intelligence that only knew of   
shadow games, lies and power struggles.  
  
Ignoring O'Neill's hard scornful state, and the ones given to the newcomer   
by the rest of his people, General Hammond stood up and waved at the   
intelligence official to join them. "Would you care to explain yourself,   
Colonel? Why did you say a rescue party won't be necessary?"  
  
Mayborne walked closer to the briefing table but didn't took a seat,   
instead, he offered a bundle of official papers to the superior officer.   
"This is an official request for you to hand over to me all objects   
obtained by the mission sent to P3X254, sir. I'll be taking them with me   
on my return to Nellis AFB."  
  
"You can't do that," Major Carter objected, "it's not safe to move the   
sphere until we have run all necessary tests on it."  
  
"And we still have to do a complete autopsy of Major Marsden's body," Dr.   
Fraiser agreed with her. "The last one wasn't conclusive."  
  
As Hammond examined the papers, Mayborne just gave them a condescending   
smile. "You don't have to worry about that; we've imported a group of the   
best Navy pathologists from Bethesda Hospital at Maryland, they'll take   
care of everything. And Major Carter, I severely doubt that you can do a   
better job here than we can at Nellis."  
  
Carter was about to answer him when Hammond cut her off with a hard stare   
and a quick shake of his bald head. The blonde officer closed her mouth,   
and pinned Mayborne with her intense blue eyes.  
  
"Everything seems to be in order, Colonel. You can take charge of Major   
Marsden's remains and the sphere," Hammond said, offering the bundle of   
papers back to Mayborne. He grabbed them with a satisfied smile but, when   
he tried to take them out of Hammond's hand, the General hardened his   
grasp on them, holding onto them.  
  
When Mayborne raised his eyes to the older man's, he couldn't help but   
flinch at the hardness shining in them. "I've lost a group of my best men   
on this mission, Colonel Mayborne, and if I learn that you knew how   
dangerous it was going to be and you did nothing to warn us about it...   
you will be very sorry."  
  
With a hard yank, Mayborne finally snatched the papers from Hammond's   
hand. "My conscience is clear, sir."  
  
O'Neill snorted, with faked amusement. "Do you even know what that word   
means?"  
  
The intelligence officer stabbed him with his eyes, but Jack just gave him   
a saccharine sweet smile. Mayborne leaned over the table and retrieved the   
small briefcase holding the orb. Closing it, he grinned sideways.  
  
"I guess this is mine. General, I would appreciate it if you could gather   
a security squad to escort me to Nellis. I wouldn't like to have any   
trouble on my way." Hammond nodded, but said nothing and the Colonel put   
on his cap, giving a final smile of superiority to the rest. "Ladies,   
gentlemen, it's been a pleasure as always. General."  
  
With a nod, Hammond dismissed him and Mayborne went out of the room,   
taking the briefcase in his hand.  
  
"Jerk," O'Neill growled under his breath, when he was completely out of   
earshot.  
  
"I second your opinion, sir," Carter whispered with a smile.  
  
Hammond sighed and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest. "I have no   
intention of leaving things like this. Dr. Jackson, do you remember the   
name of that man? I mean the one that gave that series of conferences, we   
could ask his input on this... discreetly, of course."  
  
"Well, I'd have to consult my diary," Daniel murmured, frowning as he   
tried to remember. "If I remember correctly he was a curator at the   
British Museum, Robert... ah, no!" he snapped his fingers with a smile of   
triumph. "Rupert! Rupert Giles!" He shrugged. "I guess I could try to   
locate him."  
  
"Do it, then," Hammond nodded and checked his wristwatch, before turning   
to the rest. "Meanwhile, we all have duties to attend tomorrow, so I   
suggest you have all the rest you can tonight. You're all dismissed."  
  
"Do you know something?" O'Neill whispered to Teal'c, as all stood up and   
walked out of the briefing room.  
  
The Jaffa arched his brow coolly at him. "I know many things, O'Neill," he   
said succinctly.  
  
Jack sighed, and shook his head. Patting his stomach, the Colonel gave his   
friend a look as he grimaced with distaste. "Something inside here is   
telling me, that we're not gonna like what is going to come out of all   
this."  
  
Teal'c looked at his with confusion on his stone-carved features. "Inside   
you? You don't have a Goa'uld as I do, O'Neill - what are you talking   
about?"  
  
Rolling his eyes, Jack scratched his head. "I wasn't speaking literally,   
Teal'c, I meant my sixth sense."  
  
"Sixth? Humans only have five senses."  
  
Releasing a long and resigned breath, O'Neill shook his head. "Just forget   
about it, OK?" he said, turning around and starting to walk along the   
narrow hallway towards his small room.  
  
Looking at his back, Teal'c tilted his head slightly to one side and,   
without uttering a word or changing his expression in the least, followed   
him.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
Barely half an hour later, the small security caravan was finally ready   
outside the mountain's installation, and the men composing it were being   
given their final instructions.  
  
A group of these men were walking towards the exit of the garage when a   
dark figure approached them by their rear. And, without warning, grabbed   
the shoulder of the last man in the row. Airman Bobby Sands jumped in   
surprise and turned around, raising his weapon ready to open fire.  
  
"Hey, hey, hey!" the figure exclaimed, raising his arms in defeat, "don't   
kill me, mister! I'm just a poor, scared old woman!"  
  
Recognizing the voice, and the humorous tone in it, Sands lowered the gun   
and released a sigh of relief. "Shepard!" he growled at his old friend.   
"You scared the living daylights outta me! What do you want?"  
  
Looking over his comrade's shoulder and checking that they had been left   
behind the group and were alone, their figures almost invisible between   
two of the largest trucks parked in the garage, Shepard gave Sands a   
smile. "I need you to do me a favor."  
  
Sands frowned and rolled his eyes, knowing what would come next. Twenty   
bucks, maybe more. Wouldn't Shepard ever learn that he couldn't play   
poker, if he always danced on the spot any time he got a good deal?  
  
"Couldn't this wait till later? I got an assignment, and if the Sarge   
catches me coming in later than expected, he'll want my ass."  
  
Shepard smiled even more widely. *Too* widely for his friend's liking.   
"Actually..."  
  
Moving faster than Sands had thought possible, Shepard grabbed his friend   
by the throat and lifted him from the floor, smashing his back against the   
near truck. With his windpipe crushed by the mighty strength of his   
friend's hands and his eyes wide open in shock, Sands gurgled in pain and   
brought his rifle up, hitting him with its muzzle.  
  
The sharp metallic sight of the M-16 opened a short cut on Shepard's   
cheek, but the airman ignored the pain caused by it, concentrated only in   
increasing the pressure of his hands on his friend's neck until it finally   
snapped with a deaf sound of splintered bones.  
  
When released, the lifeless body slid to the floor with its vacant eyes   
lost in the void. Shepard took a short look around, checking that nobody   
had witnessed what had happened and leaned down, grabbing Sands' corpse by   
the chest of his uniform and lifting him effortlessly from the floor.  
  
With a blank expression on his face, as if he wasn't really aware of what   
he had done, Shepard dumped his friend's lifeless form in the back of one   
of the trucks and hid it under a plastic blanket.  
  
After that, he took Sands' M-16 from the floor, hung it from his shoulder,   
checked his appearance on the exterior rear-view mirror of the truck and   
smoothed any wrinkle that the struggle may have produced on his uniform.  
  
"Shepard!" a voice said behind him, making him turn around. The company's   
sergeant was standing behind him, with a frown on his face. "Have you seen   
Sands?"  
  
"Ah, yes sir. He felt suddenly indisposed and went to the infirmary," he   
said with a sly smile. "I told him I would do his watch, if you haven't   
any objections, sir."  
  
The Sergeant shook his head, and grunted under his breath. "OK, we're   
running out of time, so just get in the back of the damn truck. I'll read   
the riot act to Sands once we're back. Move out!"  
  
"Sir, yes sir!" the airman saluted, before running out of the garage   
towards the short line of vehicles expecting outside. Quickly walking to   
the last vehicle, a green-brown camouflaged Humvee, he opened one of the   
rear doors and jumped inside.  
  
"Hey, Shepard!" greeted one of the soldiers inside. "What are you doing   
here, and where's Sands?"  
  
"Got sick," he said succinctly, "I'm replacing him."  
  
"OK," the soldier said with a twisted smile, "I've never liked that   
straight-ass dummy anyway. By the way, you have a cut." Shepard touched   
his cheek and brought his fingertips to his eyes, seeing the red blood   
staining them. "You should change the blade of your shaving machine more   
often, dude."  
  
He gave a small smile to the soldier and, noticing some movement out of   
the corner of his eye, he turned his head to look through the window.   
Outside, Colonel Mayborne walked out of the garage and towards his   
official blue Crown Victoria waiting for him.  
  
Immediately, the small metallic briefcase the officer carried with his   
left hand magnetically attracted Shepard's eyes. For a second, the world   
vanished around him, and the only things remaining were himself and that   
briefcase. Or, more precisely, what was inside it.  
  
Which was chanting to him like a siren.  
  
"Hey, Shepard," the fellow soldier called him. "You seem a little out of   
it, are you alright?"  
  
Smiling, and without breaking his eyes apart from the shining surface of   
briefcase, Shepard nodded absent-mindedly. "Never been better," he   
whispered, bringing his bloodstained fingertips to his lips and licking   
them clean.  
  
Nobody saw it but, when the coppery taste of his own blood inflamed his   
tastebuds, his eyes flashed with a reddish glow.  
  
"Never better," he repeated, licking his lips.  
  
  
  
~~~~~~  
  
  
  
  
To be continued in DR2 - The Cross of Changes, Book IV: Foul Play 


End file.
